Azrael had never been one to read the cards. Sure, he’d been familiarized with it, but there was something which felt like a trick to him – as if the fortune teller could bend and twist the narrative to match his whim. Still too, he had no clear understanding of the auras or eggs, finding his peace much more in nature than in the supernatural. So though he is as much a shed-star as those who traveled in the caravan and set up their tents to lure in the curious, Azrael dodged the chaos of the festival and fortune seekers. Instead, the aurora hued stallion simply skirted along the edges, away from the bustling children with their brushes and vibrant paints, and away from the bonfires which licked at the night.
He wandered through the relative quiet of the meadow, just on the borders where it was fringed with trees. Just far enough away where he could see his stars. The stallion was close enough to hear the songs, even humming along for a moment to stave away the silence, but he otherwise seems an outsider in Delumine, lost to his thoughts and his wandering.
Along his side is a dreamcatcher staff, adorned with baubles which looked like stardust where they met the moonlight or bonfire’s spark. Another illusion, of course – but one which brought him bits of happiness as he gazed upon the weapon. He rubs at his neck absentmindedly, smiling as he touched its bare skin, remembering that his cherished obelisk rested now around the neck of a child he’d come to know as his – if not by blood, than by affection. For a moment, his mind wanders to her mother, bright as the sunlight with a hint of sadness and reflection in her bright blue eyes. But tonight was not about Elena. He shakes her from his psyche. Instead, the stallion breathes the spring air deeply into his lungs, willing away the memories and thoughts, focusing instead on the night.
The stars were different here in the northern sky, but he knew them all the same. The dragon, the lion, the swan. All stared down at him as he counted every shining light, whispering their names like a prayer to the silence around him. Still too though, the male is aware of his surroundings – aware of the stranger who happens upon him even as he turns and acknowledges her with a slight nod.
“Good evening.” His voice is a whisper, fringed only by the din of the celebration in the distance. “You too have strayed from the festival? Tell me… what brings you into the shadows tonight?”
The promises we made were not enough. The prayers that we had prayed were like a drug
I cannot rest, nor can I sleep, knowing the stars hang above me with their celestial hunger. I move silently through the trees, a blur of graceful shadow and startling crimson. I do not smile as I wander the evening like a ravenous creature, too hungry to be coaxed into ever-stillness. All around me the shadows seem to glitter and float between diamond streams of moonlight – all around me, I can see nothing but an endless, consuming blackness swathed in gloam and midnight forests. I soak in the moonlight like I soak in the forest. Swallowing each wild, nocturnal melody and wrapping its visceral flavour between my teeth. I want to strip the night of its beauty and devour its whispering terror. I want to feel the wind howling against my skin, while his gentle touch consoles me. I want to pull him into a twilight embrace and tell him the true shadows are not outside, but within – hiding our own demons.
Restlessness and insomnia – an ache, wilder than wild – drives the lilac-haired witch forward, away from the forests she so hunts in, and into the clearing made of the tents and bonfires. Euryale paces silently beneath the moonlight, feeling the cool, night zephyr ebb like rosewater against her silvery tresses. Her hair whips against the wind, and her expression – upon sensuous porcelain features – is near-grimacing. Tonight, the evening feels too warm, as heat descends like a eulogy; like a forgotten prayer, that one dare not sing into empty shadows of a valley made. A crisp, midnight breeze tolls through the darkness again, and the flower-studded meadows rustle like phantoms seeking heat – they moan and ache, with all the broken hunger of lovers lost at seas. Tonight, the evening is wed by sensuality. By starlight. The moon an evasive smile, a porcelain disc, in the wide, open sky that shone bright and hungry with diamond-wanting.
Euryale feels like the dark open sky. She feels raw and unmade, like a worn-down wound; forged of darkness and starlight too thick, too cosmic to hold. Her heart feels like thunder – heavy – in her chest, though she does not know why. Only the steadfast streams of moonlight caressing her flesh feels achingly familiar. Only the deep pulse of her heartbeat pounding through her veins makes sense, when her whole world drips of iron and love and ocean-darkness. Already she misses the biting cold. The winter chill of an endless December swathed in death and in glacial mystery. Already she misses the cold nights of an empty shoreline, where the oceans roared and bellowed in great, arctic waves that loomed high and thrashed low – a snarling violence, she knows well. Already she misses the touch of winter.
Yet, out here – between the breathy pathways and dirtied moonlight dressed by the stench of mortals – the meadow feels far too still, far too open. With many horses bustling in crowds, and none offering an edge, a threat, a desire. Even the bonfires, the dancing, the tents wrapped in exotic spices and burning incense, do not lure her wicked heart towards their bold witchcraft. Euryale seeks the edge of darkness, the path less thread, winding down a narrow path till her gaze flashes bright against a tall, masculine form – the darkness of his complexion, the glowing warmth of his aurora-skin, all of it compels her forward like a dream."Good evening," Her voice falls low; ghosting along her lips like silk, her words a mirror to his own, dark with curiosity. "I could not sleep – you?"
The secrets that we sold were never known. The love we had, the love we had, we had to let it go
In the darkness there are only the two, far from the others, bathed in starlight instead of firelight. It is a coat which he wears well, for Azrael had always been one for the night, with his aurora glow and his mottled coat. Though it is night, the air is warm and growing warmer by the day, summer growing near. Azrael didn’t mind, for the winter had brought him not only cold but drama and emptiness… it hadn’t been exactly the holiday season he’d anticipated. And yet, the stars had turned as they always would, the seasons giving way to change, and his own circumstances had followed the path of the heavens which turned from night to day, ever cyclical.
He blinks at the mare, nodding to her words as the din of the festival seemed to fade even further away. “Ah, but it is not a night for sleep,” he shares with a twinkle in his eye. “But for celebration… a time for the courts to come together and to welcome the birth of a new spring.” Still though, he shies from it all.
For me, the true magic of Spring is in the stars – see, just there?” He points out a small cluster of stars. “He is Boötes, the herdsman… and his brightest star is Arcturus, the fourth brightest in the sky tonight.” What Azrael doesn’t share is his own interpretation of the fortunes they held, for the star-shed was a scryer more than a star-speaker. Still, he feels a certain kinship as he counts each of ten named stars, whispering their names in his mind. Arcalis. Izar. Nekkar…
“Do you have a favorite?” he asks, tilting his head to watch Euryale more clearly. “Star, that is…?” As he awaits her answer, a rush of wind falls over them, his owl companion emerging from the darkness to land upon Azrael’s neck, hooting softly as she lips at his mane. As they stand in the meadow, darkness grows thicker around them, married with the scents of the festival – spices and flame. He turns toward the music, motioning for his companion to follow, stepping back toward the festival with a quiet sort of reverence.
“We should be getting back… I am told there are fire eaters and torch bearers who dance within the flames… certainly not a sight which should be missed. Would you care to join me at the festival, miss…?” he trails off, letting her fill in with her name as they make their way through the flowers and back toward the thrum of energy which could only come from celebration. Around them, the music grows louder, the laughter of children marrying the flutes as they rushed through the crowds, streaking paint on those they passed by with little more than a brandishing wave of the brush.
His own coat is splashed with vibrant violet, hers with seafoam green, and through it all the shed-star simply grins at Euryale, letting the spirit of the festival wash over him. “Sleep? You were saying…”
