asterion*
He does not read the brittle bitterness in her smile, the dim hurt in her eyes - it is not something he can recognize, incomparable from his own memories of home, of family. His is not without its hurts (most all of them orbiting Talia like a sun, his twin and whatever is broken between them, something that shattered and pierced both their hearts like ice or like a blade).
But he understands the way she shifts the conversation away, for it is a tactic he is well accustomed to employing. Asterion wonders what pain it is she keeps from him, what it means that she does - he should have learned by now not to kiss a girl with secrets. He should have learned that sometimes you have to dig, to find the truth like roots beneath the soil, dirty and essential.
The king is still too shy for it, too boyish, too afraid he might dig too deep, might sever something vital. So he only smiles and follows her through the doorway, telling himself her words are nothing but snowflakes, lovely and frail, to melt on his skin and leave only the memory of their touch.
As she guides them through the hallways his gaze strays between their surroundings and the girl who leads them, bright as a flame in the dim even with her bandaged wing. He does not miss the way those she meets greet her, with smiles and nods and recognition, with gratitude and love. Oh, she is a phoenix indeed, a beacon - and he a fading star.
“It seems everybody is rather fond of you,” he says, and wonders if she can read in his eyes the way he wants to tuck an errant curl back behind her ear, the way he wants to say I am fond of you too. It is close enough through the final doorway that he brushes against her folded wings, cool and soft as snow.
The organized chaos of the kitchens is a comfort, the smells warm and homey. The king had not realized the tension in his shoulders until it eases away, nor his hunger until his stomach growls; he ducks his head sheepishly even as a mare bustles forward, greeting Moira. For the moment Asterion hangs back, only wearing his smile (one that broadens as the cook speaks) - until she says handsome and husband. Then his skin flushes, then all of the day’s chill melts away far more quickly than even the cook-fires should allow; his gaze on the phoenix-girl is wide. Ah, but it is not only embarrassment that warms his cheeks - it is the truth at the heart of it, his own secret the way the words make his heart leap, its beat quickening with something like hope.
He is grateful that the woman pulls them both along before he must say anything beyond Hello, grateful that she does not seem to expect more than that; he catches Moira’s smile and it dazzles him like dawn-light on dew. It is enough to make him take a seat beside her without complaint, without too much self-consciousness of all the stranger’s eyes on him (what must they thing, to see someone so lean and warn against this fiery, beloved girl?).
Asterion has not yet made it to his tea when she speaks, and that is well - for otherwise he might have coughed on the liquid, or at the least burned his tongue. He nods, smiling, even as he wonders if she means anything by it; he tries to quiet the beat of his heart, the hope and the want.
“She should know better to judge based on handsomeness alone,” he jests softly, his gaze not quite meeting hers. “Though it seems you are more than competent enough to make up for any suitor’s shortcomings.” His cheeks are still burning; when he takes a long drink of tea it does nothing for the heat that flushes him, but at least it gives him a moment to look down and away.
Oh, but he wants to ask - the memory of the festival is with him as strongly as though she has pressed a fresh kiss to his cheek; the ghost of it lingers there still. How to tell her how he feels without frightening her off? How to sort out his own tangle of feelings, that buoy of joy and wishing whenever she is near, the nerves that always make his words stumble and catch him before he reveals something he should not?
“Is the library your refuge, then,” he says lightly, his gaze at last meeting hers (and how similar it feels, and how far, from when they looked at each other from across a table of frosted sweets!), “From all the suitors who seek your hand?” He finds it is too easy to picture these strangers, each more handsome than the last, each better than he than making her smile, making her laugh, telling her she is lovely.
Asterion takes another sip of tea, and watches her from beneath dark lashes.
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