over the mountains of the moon
down the valley of the shadow-
down the valley of the shadow-
A
utumn has ever been his favorite time, in this world and every other. Every morning clear and pale and precious, the fields limned in frost burned off as soon as the sun rises and turns the world golden. The cool breeze that sweeps in from the sea, the heavy scents of ripe fruits as they gathered up the last of the warmth before falling. And the color, oh! The world is a riot of scarlet and orange, of dusky purple and yellow bright as a bird.
He should be happy, then, as he walks from the wind-swept meadow and into Tinea, for the worst of the scars from last year’s rains are gone. The wildlife is back, each fieldmouse and meadowlark, and the sky is bright blue overhead.
But Isra is missing. But Seraphina is fallen. But Florentine is in Denocte, too stubborn to go where she might be safe.
Asterion presses into a run, the kind for forgetting, the kind that forces each breath from his lungs like a bellows. Not even Cirrus could keep up with him now, as he gallops too quickly to press the grasses flat beneath his hooves, as he urges himself on and on until every ounce of his Throughbred blood and sinew and muscle is forced into service. And for just a moment he wonders if this is as close as he will ever get to flying.
Too soon he is at the treeline, and it is this and not the burn of his lungs or the rush of his bloodstream that forces him to slow. He is euphoric from his run, light-headed and gasping. For the moment he has outrun memories of the meeting, and the trouble always on the horizon, and the way his thoughts circle him like dogs baying do something, do something.
He is not surprised to look up and find Leto there.
The king laughs, though maybe it is only a gasp for breath; then he shakes his head and considers her.
She looks no less wild and other than she had at the masquerade, when she had gone out into the night and he had let her, not following. He might be sorry for it, if he weren’t already sorry for so many things.
“Well, Leto?” he says, and leans forward, as though he might let the wind blow him away again.
@Leto
