this night is irreparable. but where you are, it's still light;
Up here the air is cold and thin with altitude. Elchanan’s lungs prickle as he breathes it in; now that fall has fully settled in, the nights are chilly and, unfortunately, growing shorter. Most of Novus is likely to be huddled inside their houses and restaurants, bathing in the warmth of a bonfire, or celebrating what’s left of the daylight at one of the Court festivals; and part of him wishes he could join them, steal a kiss or a purse of gold coins. But there are fewer hours every passing day that the priest can comfortably spend outside, so he takes advantage of them where he can.
Overhead, the half-full moon drips globs of silver light onto the mountain, and washes the white of its snow into the color and shine of mercury. Here the world seems as beautiful and empty as a fairytale; Elchanan thinks he might be the only living creature for miles around, pests and rodents included. He climbs up the slope doggedly. A careful step placed here, then there. The weight of a body shifted delicately over loose rocks, made even looser by the fine dusting of dew and snow that flutters down from overhead. There are a few brief moments where Elchanan’s stance seems to slip, where his heart trips against his chest in preparation to fall; but the cool, thick light of the moon is a balm against his pale skin (and nothing comes of those trips, anyway).
It is moments like these that remind him the most of home. This kind of night—moonlit, exploratory—had been banned completely; for much of his life even the night’s existence was left up for debate. Back then, he could not have ever imagined it would look like this. Beautiful. Black velvet pricked with stars. A curving slice of light, whose pool of silver flowing down never seems to end. In its embrace, enshrouded by darkness, the archpriest is nothing more than a vessel for moonlight: the tattoo on his forehead glowing near-white, the staff against his shoulder glinting bright gold.
A vessel for moonlight. Just as it was meant to be.
"Speaking"
Overhead, the half-full moon drips globs of silver light onto the mountain, and washes the white of its snow into the color and shine of mercury. Here the world seems as beautiful and empty as a fairytale; Elchanan thinks he might be the only living creature for miles around, pests and rodents included. He climbs up the slope doggedly. A careful step placed here, then there. The weight of a body shifted delicately over loose rocks, made even looser by the fine dusting of dew and snow that flutters down from overhead. There are a few brief moments where Elchanan’s stance seems to slip, where his heart trips against his chest in preparation to fall; but the cool, thick light of the moon is a balm against his pale skin (and nothing comes of those trips, anyway).
It is moments like these that remind him the most of home. This kind of night—moonlit, exploratory—had been banned completely; for much of his life even the night’s existence was left up for debate. Back then, he could not have ever imagined it would look like this. Beautiful. Black velvet pricked with stars. A curving slice of light, whose pool of silver flowing down never seems to end. In its embrace, enshrouded by darkness, the archpriest is nothing more than a vessel for moonlight: the tattoo on his forehead glowing near-white, the staff against his shoulder glinting bright gold.
A vessel for moonlight. Just as it was meant to be.
