in sunshine and in shadow
He listens in silence to her story, glad that they stand close enough that she might not look at the way his mouth sets when she talks of war. But maybe she can feel the tensing of his muscles, though he keeps his breathing even, in time with the lap of waves. How he wishes, then, for power beyond his water-magic. For wings, and teeth, and most of all for savagery. There are so many more lessons he should have learned from Calliope, but back then he had never wanted blood.
Asterion says nothing until she finishes with her arrival in Terrastella. But at it his eyes widen, and he glances at her. “Your wing,” he says, and realization pitches his voice low. “When I first met you - oh, Samaira. I am so sorry. And so glad you are here.” It’s easy to remember that day - the bright, new sunshine, the bandage she wore, how she looked when she tipped her face to the light and closed her eyes, letting music wash over her. How they had danced in the street, careless of onlookers.
He’d had no idea. He is almost ashamed of his ignorance. And yet she is here now, real and warm beside him, her eyes the same color as moonlight on the sea.
But the thought of war is like a grain of sand in an oyster; his emotions snag on it, anger and disgust at the wrongness of it, and he thinks of Raum and all the evils of Novus and wonders how long until that feeling is as hard and black as a pearl.
“If you wished it, if I could - I would send the Halycon to Irindor.” It should surprise him, the savageness of the thought. The king can’t look at her in that moment, afraid that if he did he might ask Flora if there was a way to do it. He’s never wanted blood until this year. Only saltwater, only dreams. Almost he envisions it, his Commander and her army giving them war until they choked on it. Instead he adds, softer, “Your parents were very brave, and must love you very much.” And what must they believe happened to their daughter? Escape, or a quick death, or worse?
Yet he softens, when she continues and speaks of her heart. The words are familiar enough to make his own ache. The bay looks away from the dawn-light over the water and touches his muzzle to her cheek, light as a breath against the markings there. “That is the way of my heart, too,” he murmurs, “though I have so much. I have faith that yours will. Every wish and more.”
He only feels a little like he’s also talking to himself.
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