It’s different this time, than when they last met — lighter. Brighter. The glow of the fireflies and the splashing of the river, the music and laughter breaking gently over them. He can feel himself slipping, falling, falling, falling into the spirit of the night (it makes a distant part of him begin to wonder if that’s all he is now, a ghost, floating from memory to memory, living in other peoples’ emotions.)
He smiles, and tries not to think that every kite has a weight holding it down, that the leap of his heart is only soaring so far when there’s a string tied to it and, at the other end, a rock.
The trees will remember for him, even if he forgets for tonight.
“I would like to see it,” he tells her, as violets and bluebells spring up around them. “Would you have me over sometime?” He wonders if it would look like the witches’ cottages in the stories — hemlock and poison ivy draped in sheets over it, overgrown weeds and wildflowers making it blend into the forest around it, chanterelle and oyster mushrooms springing from half-rotten wood walls, a nightlight opened in the roof to the stars. It would suit her, he thinks. He could bring a bouquet of wildflowers with him to set in a vase, to brighten her workstation.
He’s moving freely now, speaking freely, when they reach the riverside. The water splashes against his skin and turns his coat dark, runs in teardrops down his sides, and all he does is laugh and wade in deeper. A thousand fireflies drift around his crown, their color brightening his cheeks to a deep rose color. The restless nights, the frayed nerves, the wardrum beat of his heart, it slips away. Tonight, tonight, tonight, the river whispers to him each time it swells against his legs. Leave it behind tonight.
And he does. “I grew up in Solterra,” his voice does not sound like his own. It sounds like the orphan-boy from the desert, seeing the river for the first time. “Delumine felt the closest like home, I suppose. I sometimes think I was born in the wrong place — but the desert makes me appreciate grass just that much more.”
There’s a bit of mischief shining in his eyes when a firefly wanders too close. And there is only a moment, when he pauses knee-deep in the water and turns back to the crow-witch, that he wonders why the river, and why tonight, and why the fireflies seemed drawn only to those with a bit of a shadow filling the space between their lungs.
But the next moment he is dipping his head beneath the waves, the cold water making his cheeks flush and his heart begin to race. And when he flings his head back up and sends a sheet of water splashing over her, he forgets why the questions mattered at all.
He smiles, and tries not to think that every kite has a weight holding it down, that the leap of his heart is only soaring so far when there’s a string tied to it and, at the other end, a rock.
The trees will remember for him, even if he forgets for tonight.
“I would like to see it,” he tells her, as violets and bluebells spring up around them. “Would you have me over sometime?” He wonders if it would look like the witches’ cottages in the stories — hemlock and poison ivy draped in sheets over it, overgrown weeds and wildflowers making it blend into the forest around it, chanterelle and oyster mushrooms springing from half-rotten wood walls, a nightlight opened in the roof to the stars. It would suit her, he thinks. He could bring a bouquet of wildflowers with him to set in a vase, to brighten her workstation.
He’s moving freely now, speaking freely, when they reach the riverside. The water splashes against his skin and turns his coat dark, runs in teardrops down his sides, and all he does is laugh and wade in deeper. A thousand fireflies drift around his crown, their color brightening his cheeks to a deep rose color. The restless nights, the frayed nerves, the wardrum beat of his heart, it slips away. Tonight, tonight, tonight, the river whispers to him each time it swells against his legs. Leave it behind tonight.
And he does. “I grew up in Solterra,” his voice does not sound like his own. It sounds like the orphan-boy from the desert, seeing the river for the first time. “Delumine felt the closest like home, I suppose. I sometimes think I was born in the wrong place — but the desert makes me appreciate grass just that much more.”
There’s a bit of mischief shining in his eyes when a firefly wanders too close. And there is only a moment, when he pauses knee-deep in the water and turns back to the crow-witch, that he wonders why the river, and why tonight, and why the fireflies seemed drawn only to those with a bit of a shadow filling the space between their lungs.
But the next moment he is dipping his head beneath the waves, the cold water making his cheeks flush and his heart begin to race. And when he flings his head back up and sends a sheet of water splashing over her, he forgets why the questions mattered at all.
@corrdelia ! notes
”here am i!“
