we ran, as if to meet the moon;
Elchanan has never known responsibility, duty, commitment. He has never been particularly worried by the knowledge that there are problems in the world, and that some of those problems might affect him. He does not particularly worry about the changing hands of Novus’ politics. He’s not even sure he cares that his queen is about to leave on a warship to some hovel across the world.
So, like Nyx, his heart is light tonight. But unlike hers, it has never been heavy at all.
The ground is freckled with snow, some of the cobblestones painted over with a thick layer of black ice: Elchanan’s usual prance has slowed to a graceful, nitpicky trot, steps carefully calculated not to slip and fall as he makes his way down the slope of the streets. Tonight the wind is blowing through with a vengeance. Tonight it is on a mission, seeking out graveyards and foolish mortals just like him. Usually the priest isn’t bothered by cold, but tonight he finds himself shivering, hair being tugged from its braids by the vicious breeze and skin prickling against the cold. His steps are stilted, joints locked together like a wooden doll’s, but still he slips and slides his ways through the alley with continued, foolish stubbornness.
It’s a beautiful night, as it always is. Denocte has a way of making the world look… better. Prettier, more magical. Like an oil painting. Overhead the sky is dark-velvet blue, pricked with the impression of burning white stars and a sliver of moon; the flickering yellow light cast by the street lanterns doesn’t reach much further than the nearest cobblestone corner or stained-glass window. Despite the way the cold gnaws at his skin, his cheeks, nostrils and all his sharp edges, Elchanan finds himself entranced by the sight of it.
And then, a moment later, entranced with the sight of the girl making her way up the street.
She is beautiful in the way of something otherworldly, dressed in all the colors of the sky and ocean but not of the earth. After a cursory glance Elchanan decides she must be new; she is staring at the buildings around them with the kind of awe evident only in strangers who have just arrived. Anticipation rises in his chest.
“Evening,” the priest calls out. In the darkness his voice is rich and easy, ringing with the same carelessness evident in every other action of his. He smiles, but the sharp, fanged edge of his smile is lost in the lack of light.
