asterion*
Sometimes, he thinks the crescent-moon lake is less of a lake and more of a mirror, holding all the selves he’s been before. Tonight, for instance, when he steps softly up to the edge of the water, the glow from the lanterns could be from fireflies. Instead of a crowd, it might just be him - not old (or immortal) and heartsick and weary, but naive and new-arrived with hope urging him onward. And there might be a girl in the water, with hair like starlight and a constellation across the curve of her neck, and they might reassure one another that they aren’t dreaming.
That night from years ago feels like a dream now. So, too, does the time he stood on this shore with Isra, and together they fashioned the lake into another dreamscape, a walkway of cedar and gemstones and water that hung suspended like glass, the picture of a world underwater.
The sound of laughter draws him from his reverie, and Asterion glances up to watch two yearlings racing their lanterns across the water, blowing great puffs of air until the bits of paper are beyond their reach. With a thought, he sends a wave rippling beneath them, and the youths cry out, delighted, as their lanterns are carried beyond the others. The bay stallion smiles faintly, the expression lost in the semidarkness, and steps away from the shoreline toward the silent pines beyond.
@Mephisto
