He hadn’t wanted to return to the island.
What could be for him there, that place that was only a reminder of failure and loss? Even the magic he wanted nothing to do with - not after Ravos and the riftlands, not when he knew what such chaotic power could do. Better gods, who could be reasoned with and rallied against. Better if should have stayed sunken below the waves, even if it meant he would not return.
But Asterion has always been a glutton for punishment, and oh, that thing inside him now is hungry.
It was moonrise when he reached the island, and even in the cold the smell of it was strange - smooth, and cold, and other words that were less senses than feelings. Over all that was the more familiar presence of the sea. This side of the island it is protected from the open ocean, and the waves are no more than a whisper over the sharp, glass-toothed surface of the beach. Given time, the water could wear those edges town to curves - but Asterion knows it won’t have the chance.
The darkness is a blessing. With the moon only a crescent above, there is no light for his reflections to watch him by; when he cares to glance full in one of the dead-star mirrors there is nothing there but a shadow without even a suggestion of starlight. Only when his forelock blows back from his brow and the pale mark there is revealed does he look like himself at all - and whatever drew Asterion back, it was not shards of memory, or potential, or regret.
He thinks that this darkness is less dangerous than the one he returned to - the one with stars that trembled and fell, and blackness that ate up everything, and Thana, hunting. He think it until Leto climbs from the sea.
Asterion hears the bells chime his name. He feels the eyes on his back. And still he does not turn toward her (though he stops, and a dozen shadows fall still around him) until the ocean-musk scent of her rolls over him and her touch brushes cold against his skin.
There is something different about her laughter, but then, there is something different about his gaze when it moves to hers, even as his mouth dips to touch her sea-slick shoulder, black and gleaming as the midnight glass beneath their feet. He licks salt from his lips as she says his name. He had known that guilt would find him here, and so it has - in the shape of this woman who he failed as both king and servant. There could have been - should have been - more to them, that night they’d parted with smoke billowing on the horizon, the island a baleful red eye of fire blinking awake. And there is a sorrow trembling in him, a shame, even as that other seeks to drown it like sand on embers - until he catches a glimpse of her teeth.
And then his mouth curves into a smile, too, and he ignores her questions, and the things they both might have wanted. “I see that somebody taught you how to swim, Leto. I’m sorry I didn’t keep my promise.”
What could be for him there, that place that was only a reminder of failure and loss? Even the magic he wanted nothing to do with - not after Ravos and the riftlands, not when he knew what such chaotic power could do. Better gods, who could be reasoned with and rallied against. Better if should have stayed sunken below the waves, even if it meant he would not return.
But Asterion has always been a glutton for punishment, and oh, that thing inside him now is hungry.
It was moonrise when he reached the island, and even in the cold the smell of it was strange - smooth, and cold, and other words that were less senses than feelings. Over all that was the more familiar presence of the sea. This side of the island it is protected from the open ocean, and the waves are no more than a whisper over the sharp, glass-toothed surface of the beach. Given time, the water could wear those edges town to curves - but Asterion knows it won’t have the chance.
The darkness is a blessing. With the moon only a crescent above, there is no light for his reflections to watch him by; when he cares to glance full in one of the dead-star mirrors there is nothing there but a shadow without even a suggestion of starlight. Only when his forelock blows back from his brow and the pale mark there is revealed does he look like himself at all - and whatever drew Asterion back, it was not shards of memory, or potential, or regret.
He thinks that this darkness is less dangerous than the one he returned to - the one with stars that trembled and fell, and blackness that ate up everything, and Thana, hunting. He think it until Leto climbs from the sea.
Asterion hears the bells chime his name. He feels the eyes on his back. And still he does not turn toward her (though he stops, and a dozen shadows fall still around him) until the ocean-musk scent of her rolls over him and her touch brushes cold against his skin.
There is something different about her laughter, but then, there is something different about his gaze when it moves to hers, even as his mouth dips to touch her sea-slick shoulder, black and gleaming as the midnight glass beneath their feet. He licks salt from his lips as she says his name. He had known that guilt would find him here, and so it has - in the shape of this woman who he failed as both king and servant. There could have been - should have been - more to them, that night they’d parted with smoke billowing on the horizon, the island a baleful red eye of fire blinking awake. And there is a sorrow trembling in him, a shame, even as that other seeks to drown it like sand on embers - until he catches a glimpse of her teeth.
And then his mouth curves into a smile, too, and he ignores her questions, and the things they both might have wanted. “I see that somebody taught you how to swim, Leto. I’m sorry I didn’t keep my promise.”
In the ocean washing off
my name from your throat;
my name from your throat;
