this year I devour.
The lake is always still, but especially so now. Its surface is clear and smooth and glass and from where Elchanan stands at the edge of the rocky shore, he can see straight through and down: to the place where the bank slopes steep and low, to the wide whitish stones that line the bottom, and the place, far, far out, where the water is mottled by the brightly-colored suggestion of fish wriggling around.
On top of it all there is a mirror-slick lacquer of silver, where the moon comes down to frost the lake. Everything underneath is, too, stricken with pale light.
This is where he belongs. In the near-dark, in the kiss of the stars, in a place and time where he can only really be seen by the faint silvery outline that flashes over him from above. So as he stands, knee-deep in the water, he is not cold or scared or even on alert. Elchanan only looks out and watches the stillness of the lake as if he’s expecting it to be interrupted.
It is not so bitterly chilly as he’d expected, even with the singing wind. Praise Caligo for that.
Humming some homeland tune under his breath, Elchanan begins to dance.
Only a little swish of his white tail, the flexing of one wing that skates out to touch the tips of his blue feathers over the surface of the water: what is there not to love, what is there not to dance for? From over the mountains there is the faint sound of laughter and raucous music, and for a moment he ponders returning to the markets, to the parties, to see who he might find.
But oh, there is someone much more interesting coming from the other side of the lake, and when Elchanan sees her he stands still and grins. His teeth flash stark-white. They have met before, long before, he is sure of it; shaking the water from his coat, he steps onto the shore and toward her with a little prance, his head held high.
“Samaira!” he calls out, and in the darkness, tinged with magic, his voice could almost be a siren’s call.
