asterion,
If Marisol had not tumbled from the sky like a struck falcon, Asterion might have responded to the potionmaster’s remark. He might have said there may be no more time, how if this was the end of all things he wanted them to face it clear-eyed, knowing they had chosen, and that choosing meant faith, and hope, and what else to combat the unknown?
But there is no time to respond. He doesn’t like it, having those words hang in the air, unanswered, for all to hear - yet he forgets the sting of them as he approaches his Commander. She is wind-torn, a wild thing, sharp with the smell of salt and brine, metallic with blood. When she spits a stream of it between the two of them he does not step back, but there is sharp concern in his gaze, and something like fury building in his chest like a storm. He is not an idiot; he knows something has been done to her. He knows already that whatever it is it will pay, blood for blood.
She laughs and his gaze flicks back up, watching her square herself, speaking as formally as a priest. His ears give away his uncertainty, flicking back and forward again, and dimly he is aware of the rest of the crowd behind them, curious, pressing nearer. He hopes that Fiona or Rhone or somebody reasonable is reassuring them, keeping them back, giving the smaller group space. As if to echo the sea that drenches her, he can feel his magic whirling in him, a hungry Charybdis, and when she speaks again he isn’t sure where his anger comes from, and who it wants to strike.
The king leashes it, his heartbeat slowed now to something almost-steady, his gaze fastened on hers. There is no pity in it, not now, not yet. “I will fill you in later,” he says. “For now, you will go the hospital with Atreus, who will evaluate your condition.” Is that amusement in her eyes, he wonders - it makes something writhe in his stomach, sick and uncertain. His voice his even and his gaze is hard when he adds, “And that is an order, Commander Marisol. For both of you.” He only spares a glance for Atreus; then, expecting their obedience, he turns to Theodosia. She had trailed the Commander’s landing like the tail of a comet, and her own feelings are clear, betrayed by the shivering of her wings and the look in her eyes. Quietly, he speaks to her, remembering what Israfel had told him. “When they have gone, tell me anything you may have seen. And then you may follow them, if you wish. I trust your judgement on what she needs - space, or a friend. Both of you are to rest.” Oh, he wishes then for Florentine, or Rannveig, a Regent he could trust to take over the meeting or accompany the healer and the commander to the hospital.
When he pulls away from Theodosia it is to see Cirrus dropping toward him, a piece of cloud torn from the sky, and though no words pass between them the slight weight of her on his shoulders when he lands is more comfort than he can say.
king of dusk.
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