As her mother said: even in the worst of circumstances, love never fails.
Azura is familiar with many forms of love. The love that she grew up in when she was taken into Hoshido is not love she can forget â love strong enough that she was ( perhaps still ) proud enough to deem herself Hoshidan. The love that she gave Corrin as they took on the conquest's burden atop their shoulders is not love that she can easily abandon.
The love that she feels when she looks at all of her siblings â from Nohr, from Hoshido â is not love she can understand easily, though. It is convoluted at times, a love that yearns for reciprocation that she knows is undeserved, and still, no matter what logical thought dictates, the heart does not stop its pleading. When she positions herself on the scales of justice and lingers on where they tilt, it is then when Azura starts to fold.
Paper stars. The first few she had made, back when Ryoma first defended her from his own people, were sloppy. Made of shredded parchment and trembling hands, these were far from what stars looked like â but she had shown him to Ryoma briefly in open palms, a cluster of beige that lacked the beauty of the true Hoshidan skies. "They remind me of you in a way," she remarked, before tucking them in her pocket. Laughter. "You fight... strongly, yet with grace â just like shooting stars."
Then more when they brought her to Dragonfall; then even more in war; and Azura's pockets grew full with starlight â until lightning struck him down, until the stars were poured into the lake and sent floating into the darkened night. Had her mother been wrong? Had love failed, or had they not loved enough to spare Ryoma from his end? As the stars drowned, she wept â quiet, away from the sleeping barracks â to burden nobody but herself: a Hoshidan who did not love her family enough.
( But she did. If she didn't, then she would still be alive in Nohr.
Instead, she is here. A small glass bottle in hand, filled to the brim with stars in a kaleidoscope of colors â neat, recognizable as stars. She sets it down at his door in the dead of night. One more glance as her hands slide back into her pockets, where more stars await, and she leaves in silence.
One day, Azura will find a way to prove to Ryoma that her love has never failed him, even if it has hurt him; but in the meantime, this will have to suffice. )
The stars are bright, the night of Ryoma's birthday.
In the back of his mind, he remembers words spoken to him when he had been young and in grief. A pocketful of stars, a laugh, and an honest proclamation from a girl hurting more than he most likely was. On nights like this, he thinks of those little stars, crumpled and imperfect, yet they are still stars. They are still Ryoma.
He looks up at the sky, and for a moment, he swears he sees a blink in the stars - a quick strand of light, then nothing. It should mean nothing to him now, a reminder of a girl who had never been family. Yet for a brief moment, he feels the warmth of home, and that's enough.
He closes his curtains, and allows sleep to take him for the night.
In the morning, he trips over something by his door. Under his breath he swears, before he realises what it is. In a moment that drags, he sees the jar, filled to the brim with colourful stars. He can't bend down in time to save it. The glass shatters as it falls, and the stars shower across the path. They bounce, and skitter, and flee from him.
He reaches out to the stars, grabbing them by the handful. Clumsily, he grips glass. Blood trickles down his wrist, but he can't stop himself from reaching out. They're Azura's stars; he would recognise them anywhere.
He throws the mess of stars and glass onto his table. The stars are ruined by his blood, by the glass, and by his too-tight grip. All bar one, pristine and bright yellow.
The colour of a shooting star.
