Asterion How to explain it - the way that everything seemed to make sense when his whole world was condensed to the point of that blade with the morning sun gleaming off of it like a colliding star? Like each heartbeat mattered more when they were finite, like the slow pull of his breath when it might be his last was the only time he was conscious of how marvelous a thing it was to breathe at all? He should be grateful for that newborn burning pain, calling him back to reality. But he is more thankful by far for the grin she flashes at him after, and how it lasts longer and sears brighter in him than sunlight off a spear-tip. All the tension of the fight has fled; he can hear birdsong again, calling down the morning. There is a sheen of sweat over them both and Asterion’s grin matches hers even as blood tickles down his sides. It will itch, when it dries, and so will the wound as it heals - but it is enough that it will heal. The king follows his Commander from the field, legs stiff and side screaming but with an easy expression on his face and a dawn in his heart, so different from how he had arrived. More whole. Together they vanish back to Terrastella, leaving the field still shining-wet behind them, incongruous beneath a heartbreak blue sky. |