I want to be with those who know secret things
or else alone
or else alone
She has no answers for him - it would be foolish for him to expect any - but her laughter is enough to give him hope, anyway.
Oh, how many heroes has Asterion raised up for himself, only to see them fall? Reichenbach, Aislinn, Raymond - time has swallowed them all, these giants who built and broke his heart, closing over them like the ocean over the rocks when the tide rises. They only live in his memory now, echoes that act more like shadows, warning him of a thousand follies he might fall into like a pit.
But not Florentine. Whether a golden queen or a shattered girl with a stolen memory his sister has only been true, and the bay could never give voice to how grateful he is to be standing with her now. Yet even as he presses his forehead against her, and feels the eager trembling of her skin, that old fear rises up in him. Oh, his begging heart beats out the rhythm of the words - Don’t leave me, don’t leave me, don’t leave me alone. He knows that Florentine is like a wisp of dandelion fluff, made to ride the wind, a girl with a gift for going.
Asterion is glad, then, when her words fall to fill up the space they make between them. When he lifts his gaze to meet hers he is wary, though her tone belies what she says; his heart quiets, his breath is even, and he forgets the doom waiting on the horizon like a wolf at winter’s door.
She does not hold him in suspense for long. Asterion stands, slack-jawed, his mind slow to catch up even as his heart leaps, light as smoke, rising, rising, joyful.
“An uncle?” he repeats, and a smile begins to bloom on his lips like a small dawn. “Congratulations, sister.” Oh, and then he is beaming, laughing, shock and joy and love, even as lightning makes the world stark, even as darkness crowds closer, closer yet.
His sister turns back to the sea, but Asterion is not yet ready to look; instead he rests his jaw upon her withers, closes his eyes and breathes deeply of flowers, a constant promise of spring.
“I have forgotten how to believe it will bring good things,” he says at last, soft as a guilty admission. When eventually he opens his eyes it is the sea he watches, changing, endless, steady, wild. The king imagines Flora with a foal at her side and hope stirs in him, sweet as a June breeze to chase away the fog. “But I am ready for change.”
@
Asterion.
