asterion,
Asterion hears the soft rustle of the spread of her wings just before he looks back, and finds her poised again for flight. Oh, he envies those proud wings and the way they open the world to her! But it is well that he has never possessed his own, for there would be no hope of him lingering anywhere long enough for it to become home. The king has always had a wanderer’s heart, a dreamer’s heart, but it beats in a rhythm he can no longer follow.
He belongs to Terrastella as much as it does to him.
Part of him wants to watch her fly, to see what those mighty limbs could do - but he is growing glad not to be alone. Even if he can give her no straight answers (except his name, and even that feels half a lie without King before it), she is a distraction from the turmoil of his thoughts, and the cold wind on his face feels less hungry with a warm presence by his side.
So he is glad when she settles in beside him, and does nothing to hide the smile, soft as the frost that would silver the grounds with dawn. They are still the only souls on the wide and leaf-blown streets, save the crickets still singing in the fields and the distant, mournful call of an owl.
“No,” he answers, and there is no sign that the unknowing bothers him. They are traveling a path he knows well, now, one he has trod in darkness and light, driving rain and summer-bright sun, and all the long grasses of the meadow nod their heads as the pair passes by. “But I hope to know it when I find it.” He doesn’t expect to, not tonight, not when he has no name for what he looks for but a way to mend the ragged edges of his heart. The only cure he knows - has ever known - is saltwater and starlight.
Now that they are moving again, now that the empty room with the dying fire and the drying ink is growing further behind him, Asterion feels less like a wild thing. He almost wants to laugh at her following question, for he can imagine his golden sister pointing out his melancholy look - he has never been good at keeping his own secrets, at schooling his expression. At lying at all. “To the sea.” He regards her for a moment, breathes deeply of crisp midnight air already scented with salt, with brine. “Follow me, and I will show you.” He may be a king (though he still sees no reason to tell this stranger as much; they may both keep their anonymity) but the words are still offering, not request.
And when, a moment later, he gives in to the low-tolling pain in his heart, his words are soft and low. “What do you know of love, Forseti?”
Maybe they will each have answers yet, before the dawn finds them.
king of dusk.
@Forseti | we can close here if you like (and start a new one on the cliffs?) or keep going! your call <3
