A S T E R I O N
in sunshine and in shadow*
So often does Asterion slip away to the cliffs before dawn breaks the horizon that Cirrus doesn’t even stir when he rises with the autumn mist.
In truth it was a wonder he was in his rooms at all; after the letter from Moira about the disappearance of Isra he had not slept at all, and his hair is tangled and his expression weary as he steps out into the cool morning. The sea breeze does little to straighten the knots of his mane as he approaches the cliffside, but it eases his mind the way it always does.
But the king is not the first to his usual place this morning.
For a moment in the pearly light he only stands, regarding the figure of a man who might well have been a copy of himself. A dark bay, the wind tugging at his hair, alone on a cliffside looking out over the sea - how many times had Asterion made himself the same image?
Knowing his own preferences in such moments, the king does not draw closer, giving the man his peace. But his interest piques when he recognizes the newcomer from the previous day’s meeting, and wonder at last coaxes him close to see wildflowers bloom at his feet, followed by a thin and budding sapling.
“You remind me of a man I knew in Ravos,” he says softly, once the man has finished his task, and his smile is as warm as his voice with remembering. “Together we helped heal the scars of a god’s anger, him with his earth-magic and me with my water.” Like his own sort of prayer, Asterion bows his head and touches his lips to the new grass, and water wells up and soaks down again in the same breath, nurturing the new-planted tree.
When he lifts his head again his gaze is a little more solemn, though the smile has not yet faded. “I thought I was done with gods and their vengeance when I left that place, but alas. What is your name, friend?”
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