Of Lovers, Loners & Those Born To Die

XI. Origins of the Moon

XI. ORIGINS OF THE MOON

Somewhere, higher than the tallest of tree tops and further away than the twinkling stars, there was a ceiling. There, someone, a long, long time ago, nailed in a hook and hang from it a glowing orb made from the most blinding of lights. It's a wonder to behold, bright and brilliant, but also obnoxious and garish. No peace could be had with it constantly around, everything was laid bare under its searching glare and heaven knows there's no fun to be found if truth was all that ever exist.

And so someone else came along and nailed another hook to the ceiling. From it they hanged another, smaller orb, this one made of stardust and the congealed blood of a dying angel. Each night, the small orb would absorb the glaring light of its neighbour, coat it in deceit and poetry and then emit it out to perfume the drowsing world. It's a temperamental creation, that second orb. It wasn't made out of an unfeeling force of nature but tangible grains of dust and the life force of a celestial being. It's an organic living thing that constantly shifted and changed, but still followed a cycle that could be charted by the way it appeared to the naked eye of another creature a few worlds away.

On this particular night, the orb took on the shape of a gleaming crescent embroidered into the velvet night sky. Delicately, its mystical light danced among the sleeping branches, got trapped in a dewdrop on a rose petal and streamed through the large window of the parlour to caress the porcelain body of Lady Solomon sprawled on top of a dark blue chaise longue. With her head lolling lazily between arms draped over the head rest, the thin materials of her nightgown hanged off her shoulders and pooled around her pert backside, exposing more than just her curved spine and rendering the garment almost completely useless in its primary function of protecting her modesty. Legs kicking idly, sapphire eyes following the ink that swirled into rows of words on the piece of parchment in her hand.

My dear Giselle,

I have near my bosom the last letter you wrote me, 'tis one I treasure more than anything I have in my current possession. As always, my darling, you astound and puzzle me, more cruelly than anything you could claim I do unto you.

Many things have happened since the last time I read your words, almost too many for me to mention in one short letter. The first thing I want you to know is by the time you're reading this, I would no longer be in Fangdor.-

Ever so slightly, an eyebrow was raised, slowly but noticeably accentuating as she read on.

Little reaction could be seen on the Lady's cool face. As her hooded eyes followed her husband's writing, those that could not see the vivid images conjured up behind her irises would say the going-ons of the letter was leaving her fatigue and bored, not knowing the reality was that she's anything but.

One thing in particular did manage to break through stoic facade and for a fraction of a second, grief and disbelief flashed across her features. A single finger lifted to trace the inked sentence, ensuring what written there was written there and not just a trick of light. The small grove the quill made as it engraved itself into the rough surface confirmed her fear.

"Leo..." The word escaped her lips in a breathless whisper.

Out of nowhere a black moth appeared, flapping gently in the far corner. Circling the vase, the night coloured creature settled on a pale pink rose in full bloom. Its wings fluttered slightly, moonlight casting its tiny moving shadow onto the delicate petals the same way it dripped off Lady Solomon as she shifted in her chair, curling a leg up to her stomach while the other laid flat on the plush velveteen.

For a moment, the Lady's eyes went blank as the visions in her head overtook her sight. A sigh drifted wistfully into the empty space, stirring the cool still air.