asterion,
It is not just wariness that has Asterion wondering about all the truths that lie silent in between Mephisto’s vague words.
He has ever been a listener of stories, hungry for tales from a hundred worlds over. Even now, knowing how few of them ended happily (how few even began that way) the king still wants to know. And not even for his own satisfaction - how many, now, have come from the riftlands, or from Ravos as he did? More and more.
(Sometimes he wonders if a tear in the world might rise here, not to give but to take. That he might wake someday to find Marisol gone, or Moira, or any of the dozens of others he has come to consider home. But at the root of those midnight fears is this - would he go, too, if he had a choice?)
The silence is not uncomfortable for Asterion as they walk, near as dark as their shadows as the evening settles to night around them. He knows the song of the crickets and cicadas, the sound of the wind in the trees at their back; he has memorized the path the moon takes as it climbs above the citadel.
But the temple is not something he often pays attention to.
The king’s mouth draws a taut line when Mephisto asks of it, not a frown but nothing else, either. It twitches higher when Marisol answers, and he has no compunctions about keeping his gaze from her; his dark eyes find her and he wonders again what she makes of Vespera's coldness, or if she still reads poetry in what small quiet moments she can snatch from her duties.
“Vespera,” he repeats, and the name feels like a chip of ore in his mouth, heavy and metallic. “Is the patron goddess of our court. She is…complicated, as are many feelings about her right now. As for who built it, I wish I could tell you - the history of Novus is a long one, and proud, and likely more bloody than we might ever know. There are many books on it, in our city and in the Dawn capitol, if you are interested in knowing more.”
He has not stopped walking as he spoke; now, as they pass the temple, he gaze lingers on the lamps whose light flickers between wide columns. He can see no living shadows within; he wonders how many still say their prayers, or give their offerings. He wonders if Vespera is watching them - judging them - still, or if she is once more stone, closed up in her mountain.
Asterion hopes it is the latter.
But now they are nearly across the whispering fields, and the city rises before them, stone streets and archways hung with flowers and flags. It smells like summer, which is to say sea-salt and lavender, and all things green and blooming. It smells like home.
“Have you lived in a city before, Mephisto?” he asks her - but the bay is already guessing the answer.
king of dusk.
@Mephisto @
