asterion*
It is not Moira that opens the door but a flicker of light like a stray beam of sun. He had not expected that, and it takes a moment for his eyes to adjust beyond it - and a moment more to find her, half-visible behind a veil that billows in the breeze from the open door. She looks like an oracle, a priestess, a queen, and he is too far away to read the expression in her golden eyes.
Asterion had expected Neerja, expected the snarl now rippling from her throat, and he nods minutely at the tiger but does not quail before her. Instead he steps further into the room, out of the doorway, leaving the night behind. The door closes softly behind him, and they are alone.
He wants to tell them both of another tiger he’d met - the one bonded to Florentine’s mother, a creature of fire and grace who had so reminded him of Moira. He wants to close up the space between them like a stitch gently pulled, each side meeting with a kiss.
But when Moira draws the candle light above them and he sees the hollows of her eyes, the jut of her cheeks, the slight knobs of her spine, Asterion only wants to weep.
In the end all he does is sigh, a long, blown-out breath, and set down the basket of flowers and sweets on the floor next to the wall. He does not come nearer, not with the tiger between them, not when he hasn’t been invited. There is still too much space between them, and her eyes glint too brightly. Oh, it is easy to lay blame on himself for the way she looks - not her expression, but the weariness of the body that wears it. It is easy to heap up hate like kindling, and hope she hands him a match.
It’s late. The bay makes a half-hearted attempt at a smile, and gestures toward the windows. “Tell that to your countrymen.” Out there, it is a festival (it seems to Asterion there is always a festival in Denocte; it is one of its charms). Out there, the bonfires are still burning bright, and songs are being sung, and eyes are meeting across the fire, speaking volumes over the sparks and smoke.
Inside it is quiet, too quiet, except for Neerja, and their breathing.
Asterion lifts his head, and seeks to hold her gaze steady in his own. Still, the veil blows between them. He says, “Is it too late?”
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