A S T E R I O N
in sunshine and in shadow*
He isn’t sure what brings him back to the keep, not when the lanterns are still drifting from the cliff and the bonfires are still lit and the music rises like embers, gifts for the stars. Maybe he just sought somewhere quiet; there is drink (still a new thing to him) burning in his belly, spreading pleasantly through his veins and softening his mind. Everywhere he looks there is touch and laughter and friends and lovers.
But he is alone.
The bay isn’t sure where Florentine is – presumably with Reichenbach. He hasn’t seen Israfel, or Eik, or any of the handful of others he’s met; he feels like a stranger in his home court, and the wine makes him feel like a stranger in his skin.
Maybe he’ll watch from the parapets, he thinks. Just for a moment. It would be something, to see all those lanterns drifting like summer fireflies or unmoored stars out across the sea.
At first his brow creases in confusion to see two horses wander away, painted in like designs of blue and gold. It makes them look other, makes them look magic, and he steps more quickly until his hooves are echoing on the stones of the courtyard and he’s passed beneath the pale stone arch.
The court is no quieter than the rest of Terrastella tonight. There are groups of horses laughing, flinging paint; there are others, as alone as him, fierce concentration on their faces as they cover themselves with intricate whorls and designs. A group brushes past him, soft talk and bright eyes, and Asterion catches one. “What is it?” he asks. “A pledge,” she says with a smile, “to your court, your god, your love, your friends. It’s a statement of promise.” With a last smile she goes on; he does not watch her catch up to her friends.
Asterion falters. He has nothing to pledge, nothing to promise. He has never held true to anyone or any place before; the idea of saying he might now makes his heart stutter and quicken even as his lungs seem to tighten with longing. He thinks again of Florentine, of Aislinn – how rooted they seemed to be.
When he backs up a few steps, a bump startles him back into the present. “Oh,” he says, turning, and finds yet another stranger there. She is lovely, the color of the rich dark wine, eyes bright as the distant lanterns. “Forgive me, I – ” he finds no excuse that seems adequate; the bay’s expression turns sheepish. “Must’ve had too much to drink. Are you painting yourself?”
This question, asked of a perfect stranger, seems suddenly of great importance.
@Cyrene hope this works!
