THE MOON IS MY SUN
THE NIGHT IS MY DAY
THE NIGHT IS MY DAY
H
is head tilts, birdlike, as he watches her, silver alighting in gold. Silence stretches its membranous wings over them, sealing away the moon, sealing away the stars. Until there is nothing left but darkness, and him, and her.
Does it scare her, the darkness? Caine has never feared the dark, not even as a child. The notion is as illogical as a fish fearing the sea; how could the boy fear the only thing he has known? No — Caine fears one thing, and one thing only.
That one day, he will have something to lose.
The Illusionist’s eyes are bewitchingly bright, twin moons in a starless sky. The urge to move, to speak, to do something, buzzes through his bones like electricity — but he curbs it with frigid resolve, his jaw setting to a knife’s edge. Sharp teeth bear down on his tongue until they are just shy of drawing blood — he doubts it will improve the girl’s image of him, if his muzzle is suddenly stained crimson — and the familiar sting of pain draws the fragmented pieces of his mind together again. A technique, however barbaric it seems, Caine has used like a tonic when the magic in his blood begins to drive him mad.
Sometimes it worked, and other times…
“I wouldn't even know what to wish for, Caine.” She moves like a wick of candlelight, her silver curls staining blacker and blacker the closer she draws to him. Tensely, Caine expects her to stop — for surely she is close enough now — yet his brow creases when she does not, when her delicate hooves halt a mere hairsbreadth away from his own. His mouth opens to say something —
and closes in shock when she touches him.
Lips as soft as satin ghost across his frozen cheek, and Caine stills until he is immortalized in black marble. Silver eyes turn to hers, and they are no longer anything lunar; they are flames, white fire that leaps from him like crackling lightning. Control slips from his grasp and shatters at his feet, the broken shards slicing his skin until he bleeds.
He bleeds, and suddenly Caine doesn’t remember a time when he has ever stopped bleeding. Hot pain rings through his head like a bell being struck, the markings on his forehead burning so violently that his vision cuts to white. Her kiss has stirred the piece of his heart that had been locked away with a rusted key, the only part of himself he'd salvaged from Agenor's ruin. It beats like a infant's, a measly, weak thing. He hates it, hates it, mourns for it.
Finally, the pain — if he is not so familiar with it, he would've cried out; but his lips remain as sealed as a tomb — is enough to bring him back. Caine's teeth grit savagely as he wills for the magic to settle. Black wings draw tightly to his sides as he sweeps past the phoenix girl to make for the head of the table, so she will not see the agony flashing like a beacon from his wild, blazing eyes.
“I’m Moira Tonnerre. Will you teach me to fold a paper?” Moira. Moira. The sound of her voice steadies him, and he swallows as the pain fades into nothingness once more. A curse slips from his breath along with a choking laugh, and after one last exhale, Caine turns back to Moira with a smile that is blindingly radiant.
“Under one condition.” Raven wings remain drawn as he sinks softly into the chair, so she will not see them trembling. “Tell me why my wings frighten you.” The paper crane rises slowly into the air again, flapping in a halo around his head.
She has chosen to stay. Caine wonders if she will regret it.
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