in sunshine and in shadow
Asterion stands high upon the cliffs above the thrashing sea, his breath billowing out like a ragged spirit, haloed by the bonfire at his back. Above him, sparks leap up to meet the stars; below him the waves spill foam onto black rocks. It is silent but for the crackle of flame and snap of wood and the constant sighing of the sea.
He is warm from drink and from the fire, from a night of revelry with the people he has come to love. But in this moment he is grave as he stands alone and the winter wind rakes its fingers through his dark hair. The king has only a moment before he must rejoin them; beside him is folded a scrap of rough paper, and in a rougher hand yet a wish is scrawled. Let me not fail them.
If he desired, he could call up a creature of saltwater and magic to deliver his slip of paper to the depths below. But the bay only breathes in, deeply and greedily, tasting the salt and brine on his tongue like medicine, like sacrament. And then he presses his eyes closed and casts his wish to the water far below.
It is already lost when he opens his eyes, but Asterion wills it to find the crest of a wave, to fill and sink and go to - where? He is wise enough to know, now, that no gods are listening; not Vespera, not No or Selke. Maybe there is some creature in the deeps who eats his fill desires each year on this night, but the boy does not think so.
They are alone, for better or for worse.
But he is smiling when he turns away, and the fire is warm against his face. There are others waiting and he nods his head to them but says nothing, only slips away until he is in the shadows once again, blue with snow and starlight. Halfway down the cliffs there is another fire, this one leaping and merry and full with song and companionship. For now he does not join them, only watches, caught with a happiness that feels keen and wistful as sorrow.
Until a shadow red as the heart of the flames catches his eye, crossed with a strip of lightning like a kiss from a storm.
Asterion is surprised to see her there, but more than that he is glad - he had wondered, after that day beside that pool so golden and so hot, whether she would stay or whether, like the little phoenixes, she was a wild thing, a drifting thing, a leaving thing.
Only for a moment does he hesitate before going to her, leaving soft footprints in the softer snow, little moons to melt away. She is on the edges, her back to the pines; when he stops he reaches for her the way he might a doe with eyes so dark and wide as to hold the whole night in their reflection.
“Thana,” he says, but it sounds like wish.
@Thana
