asterion,
His name is just a whisper on the breeze, half imagination by the time it reaches him; but the surprise etched on her face and the smile that blooms there after is pure and clear. A tautness he hadn’t realized was in him suddenly dissolves, and his own smile grows broader as she runs to meet him.
“Corr, he repeats, almost laughing at her exuberance; Hāsta's unnatural limpness goes unnoticed for the moment, hidden between the mare’s shoulders. Gladly he welcomes the hug, tucking his neck around hers. Asterion catches a whiff of something then, dusty and dead, feathers and bones. But still he doesn’t realize, because there, too, is the smell of Corrdelia, and forest-shadows and medicinal herbs. There is no trace of Terrastella on her skin, and that makes him a little sad - until he realizes there isn’t on his, either.
At any rate, it isn’t hard to fill in the word she skips.
“I don’t blame them,” he says, “but I’m glad they’re wrong.” His smile is more subdued when he steps away to look at her - not only because of subject matter but because that word, that unspoken word, makes him think of the not-dream (vision? He has no adequate word for the experience) with the strange mare and her god-light eyes, the one who was Death, and told him to choose his own.
“And how are you, my friend? How is -” and that’s when he realizes, when he leans around her to look at Hāsta, expecting to hear the crow, or at least see a flap of wings and those bright corvid eyes looking back at him. Strange, that she’d be so still -
But it is not strange, because the bird is clearly dead.
He wears no smile now, only a brief little o of horror before his expression creases with concern. “Corrdelia, What happened to Hāsta?”
Tho' much is taken, much abides;
@Corrdelia
