They will never give one another what they want.
Maybe that is the fate between them - maybe some god of hers or some ghost of his laid a curse long ago, that they might tangle together like roots but never let the other in.
“I am always disappointed,” he says with a shrug - although for once it is a lie. This Asterion, this soul-sick man - he doesn’t carry the guilt, the same self-shame. Somewhere he has lost it. Maybe the sickness has eaten it, maybe it is consuming other things in him now.
As her velvet skin touches just above his pulse, as her mouth wanders and her teeth graze his flesh, it is her whisper that raises a shiver along his back. It is not only that he wants that gift - that he yearns for it, the darkness beneath the surface of the water, the kind of hunger that can be satisfied. But if bothers him, to think - “Do you think I would have stopped you?” His voice is dark, almost an angry, almost hurt.
Maybe there is something in the magic of the star-mirrors, in their twin reflections endlessly watching them on the shore, for there is anger and hurt, too, in what she speaks. Asterion turns back to face her, his brow creasing, but he does not move to touch her, not even when her eyelashes brush her cheek.
Oh, it is not her fault that he has heard this before - and it is his due, to hear it again and again, as a man and a king. But his conversation with Samaira is too recent, and it makes him angry, shamefully angry, to wonder what gave them the right to claim a piece of his love, to hold him tight enough - without telling him so! - that he could wound them.
He has learned better than to respond. Instead he only watches as she tilts her head up, as the starlight baptizes her. The way she looks at the starlight is how he does at the sea, and he listens hungrily as she speaks of it. Asterion would give it anything, anything it demands - hasn’t that been all he’s ever wanted, is to have someone ask everything of him, so that he might give it?
But nobody ever asks. And he has never done well with the wondering.
He turns back toward her at her question, echoing over the star-glass and the quiet waters. Lit by sigils and starlight, she is as captivating as the water.
“Yes,” he breathes, and it is almost begging. And that dark unmaking within him says yes too.
Maybe that is the fate between them - maybe some god of hers or some ghost of his laid a curse long ago, that they might tangle together like roots but never let the other in.
“I am always disappointed,” he says with a shrug - although for once it is a lie. This Asterion, this soul-sick man - he doesn’t carry the guilt, the same self-shame. Somewhere he has lost it. Maybe the sickness has eaten it, maybe it is consuming other things in him now.
As her velvet skin touches just above his pulse, as her mouth wanders and her teeth graze his flesh, it is her whisper that raises a shiver along his back. It is not only that he wants that gift - that he yearns for it, the darkness beneath the surface of the water, the kind of hunger that can be satisfied. But if bothers him, to think - “Do you think I would have stopped you?” His voice is dark, almost an angry, almost hurt.
Maybe there is something in the magic of the star-mirrors, in their twin reflections endlessly watching them on the shore, for there is anger and hurt, too, in what she speaks. Asterion turns back to face her, his brow creasing, but he does not move to touch her, not even when her eyelashes brush her cheek.
Oh, it is not her fault that he has heard this before - and it is his due, to hear it again and again, as a man and a king. But his conversation with Samaira is too recent, and it makes him angry, shamefully angry, to wonder what gave them the right to claim a piece of his love, to hold him tight enough - without telling him so! - that he could wound them.
He has learned better than to respond. Instead he only watches as she tilts her head up, as the starlight baptizes her. The way she looks at the starlight is how he does at the sea, and he listens hungrily as she speaks of it. Asterion would give it anything, anything it demands - hasn’t that been all he’s ever wanted, is to have someone ask everything of him, so that he might give it?
But nobody ever asks. And he has never done well with the wondering.
He turns back toward her at her question, echoing over the star-glass and the quiet waters. Lit by sigils and starlight, she is as captivating as the water.
“Yes,” he breathes, and it is almost begging. And that dark unmaking within him says yes too.
In the ocean washing off
my name from your throat;
my name from your throat;
