When Stjerne was with him, that didn’t matter. There was nowhere else to be, no one else to be with, nothing else to think of; she filled his senses, awake and dreaming. But she left, occasionally. Not for long, never without a sweet-whispered promise to return, draping a thin, heavy chain of silver around his neck, the length of it resting against his heart, to remind him of that promise.
But then she would be gone, and he would be alone in their rooms, the lack of her like an abscess, or a sudden lack of pain where it had filled him to satiation, the aloneness weighing against his skin like humidity, thick and wet, making it impossible to find comfort. Then he would note how quiet their rooms were, the wind muted outside the windows, not a single voice lifted in either a shout or laughter, even the birds perched on stands outside brightly colored but silent.
She was gone now, had left while he slept, and the silver itched against his skin, leaving a pale bruise. He held it in his hand, away from his skin, and while the itching faded, other thoughts tried to slip through, cold slivers under his skin, into his nerves, into his brain.
He remembered, then, that he had forgotten things. Fleeting memories, vague, too distant to be disturbing, and yet they left him...disturbed.
He let the silver chain drop back against his skin, preferring the itching to that strange sense of loss.
Their rooms were large, well-furnished, with chairs and a wide, soft bed, a gaming table, where they would move stones across a board when Stjerne wished to play, and a bathing chamber scented with warm oils, but there was little else. When Stjerne was there, he felt no need to wander, content to stay by her side, wherever she led and whatever she did. When she was gone, she did not tell him to stay, and so he left their rooms and wandered.
There was little more to see beyond their chambers. There seemed to be no end to the structure where they resided: smooth, unadorned walls of silvery stone, rose-colored tiles underfoot. The halls seemed to go for miles no matter where he walked, great stone windows open to the air, looking out over gardens and groves, the world wreathed in the ever-present mist that lifted and swirled and then descended again, like breath.
It made him nauseous to watch it for too long, and so he learned to keep moving. The movement of his body, the stretch of his muscles, soothed him, the sound of his bare feet against tile creating an almost-music that made him pause to listen, trying to capture it, but the music faded when he stopped moving, and silence filled him again.
The missed sound caused him pain; silence brought a cool, numb sensation. After a while, he learned to tune out the almost-music and listen more closely to the silence, to choose the softer, quieter garden paths, rather than the stone hallways.
There were others in the structure, too; like Stjerne, they were graceful, seductive. They would nod to him, solemn bows as they passed in the tree-lined paths, or in the cool stone hallways, but they did not speak to him. They never spoke to him.
And, on occasion, he would look at one, and remember being held down, sweet-water dripping into his mouth, and the feeling of isolation and grief was such that he returned to their rooms and huddled on their fur-draped bed until she returned to soothe him.
But this day, he saw something different. By the fountain, where silver water sprang into the sky and then fell back into alabaster bowls, there was a figure who seemed more substantial, more...familiar.
Not like Stjerne, or the others. Like him. He started toward the figure, feeling a rush of some emotion he could not name—and then halted.
The silence pressed against his brain, whispering to him, reminding him. The chain itch was a warm burn against his skin, like the prickle of thorns. “No,” he said. “No.” He wasn’t sure if he was speaking to the emotion, or the itch, or something else entirely.
He
But then she would be gone, and he would be alone in their rooms, the lack of her like an abscess, or a sudden lack of pain where it had filled him to satiation, the aloneness weighing against his skin like humidity, thick and wet, making it impossible to find comfort. Then he would note how quiet their rooms were, the wind muted outside the windows, not a single voice lifted in either a shout or laughter, even the birds perched on stands outside brightly colored but silent.
She was gone now, had left while he slept, and the silver itched against his skin, leaving a pale bruise. He held it in his hand, away from his skin, and while the itching faded, other thoughts tried to slip through, cold slivers under his skin, into his nerves, into his brain.
He remembered, then, that he had forgotten things. Fleeting memories, vague, too distant to be disturbing, and yet they left him...disturbed.
He let the silver chain drop back against his skin, preferring the itching to that strange sense of loss.
Their rooms were large, well-furnished, with chairs and a wide, soft bed, a gaming table, where they would move stones across a board when Stjerne wished to play, and a bathing chamber scented with warm oils, but there was little else. When Stjerne was there, he felt no need to wander, content to stay by her side, wherever she led and whatever she did. When she was gone, she did not tell him to stay, and so he left their rooms and wandered.
There was little more to see beyond their chambers. There seemed to be no end to the structure where they resided: smooth, unadorned walls of silvery stone, rose-colored tiles underfoot. The halls seemed to go for miles no matter where he walked, great stone windows open to the air, looking out over gardens and groves, the world wreathed in the ever-present mist that lifted and swirled and then descended again, like breath.
It made him nauseous to watch it for too long, and so he learned to keep moving. The movement of his body, the stretch of his muscles, soothed him, the sound of his bare feet against tile creating an almost-music that made him pause to listen, trying to capture it, but the music faded when he stopped moving, and silence filled him again.
The missed sound caused him pain; silence brought a cool, numb sensation. After a while, he learned to tune out the almost-music and listen more closely to the silence, to choose the softer, quieter garden paths, rather than the stone hallways.
There were others in the structure, too; like Stjerne, they were graceful, seductive. They would nod to him, solemn bows as they passed in the tree-lined paths, or in the cool stone hallways, but they did not speak to him. They never spoke to him.
And, on occasion, he would look at one, and remember being held down, sweet-water dripping into his mouth, and the feeling of isolation and grief was such that he returned to their rooms and huddled on their fur-draped bed until she returned to soothe him.
But this day, he saw something different. By the fountain, where silver water sprang into the sky and then fell back into alabaster bowls, there was a figure who seemed more substantial, more...familiar.
Not like Stjerne, or the others. Like him. He started toward the figure, feeling a rush of some emotion he could not name—and then halted.
The silence pressed against his brain, whispering to him, reminding him. The chain itch was a warm burn against his skin, like the prickle of thorns. “No,” he said. “No.” He wasn’t sure if he was speaking to the emotion, or the itch, or something else entirely.
He
Similar Books
