A S T E R I O N
in sunshine and in shadow*
It is well and truly spring, now, and all of Asterion’s saltwater veins are beginning to itch with the need to wander.
No longer can he go the way he once did, free as a wandering wave; the bay has bound himself surely to Terrastella, to walls of stone and bonds of duty and only the distant smell of the sea. He is still stumbling through teaching himself to read, still learning what being a Regent entails – and still sleeping outside beneath the boughs of willows, not canopies of silk.
He may belong to the court, now, but he isn’t sure he will ever be at ease within any walls.
But it is enough, for the moment, to walk the smooth plain beyond the castle, to feel the new grass brush his ankles and take in the scent of things growing and new.
It is no flower that catches his eye. Instead it is a flash of white, a touch of pale rose; the bay’s attention catches on the figure and he stands watching for only a moment before moving toward him, some snagged piece of memory coming into clearer focus with each step he takes.
At last he stands a few paces away, his eyes lingering curiously for a moment on the cat before meeting the new-leaf green of the stranger’s gaze.
“I remember you,” he says then, as a cool breeze winds between them. Asterion’s expression eases into a smile somewhere between friendliness and self-deprecation, and he ducks his chin toward his chest. “But I’m not sure I ever got your name. Is this a welcome back?”
If there is a note of hesitation in his voice, it is only because he has just placed who the man was standing beside, at that meeting that felt a lifetime ago. If he were friends with Isorath, than he may not have heard of the events that had transpired since Rannveig stepped down – and Asterion is not wholly sure he is up to the telling.
@Jude
