He is not sure why her smile makes him feel both pride and profound sadness, the way it is almost like a vow. Even now, even after being driven from their home with the dead still decaying in the mud or swept out to sea in the raging floods - even after the disastrous betrayal of the Summit - he is not ready to declare war on Terrastella’s patron god. He has always lacked Calliope’s conviction; it seems he lacks Theodosia’s, too.
But he will not caution her against it, not when she has given as much or more than any of them. And it is not only the lightning arcing between her stormcloud-pale wings that keeps him from doing so.
Though he still wears a smile when she bows there is nothing boyish about it, now; it is serious, knowing with the weight of what he asks. Not so long ago, he could only have guessed at what such duty felt like, a cloak with pockets full of stones; now he knows better. They are not children playing at knights. Asterion accepts her words in silence, and then dips his own muzzle in acknowledgement.
“Then on behalf of Terrastella I thank you. When you are well, you will spar Israfel - and when we are home I will announce it to the court.” The bay tilts his head a little, then, and something almost rakish enters his expression. “Do work on getting well,” he says, already knowing she will press to be back in service as soon as she is able; so many of his court are alike in that way.
And then he is turning to leave, though he hesitates for a moment and reaches out on impulse to touch his muzzle to her shoulder, brief as the brush of a butterfly. He is prepared for the spark that jumps from her skin to his nose, and when he leaves it is with a grin.
@
if you'll be my star*
