Moonchild (BL)

Book 1: he who is blessed by the moon

SILENCE. IT WAS SILENCE that engulfed the kingdom of Qint that fateful night. Silence that seemed to flood the river of sleeping houses, their cold struck bricks caressed by the deafening absence of typical midday sound. Silence that overflows, claiming each lit lamp, the blazes of fire-edged torches, the cold-gaunt pavements that at one point or another would lead through the girth of foliage that littered about, past the capitol kingdom's high standing walls, and into the dark-laden threshold of the Cantere Doul. The Great Palace.

Oftentimes, it was natural for such quietness to purvey at that certain time of day- save it was not like any other hushed, tedious hour.

From the palace's right wing, a lone window emanated a warm, trickling light diffused by its fogged up glass. Fervently, it beamed amidst the surrounding array of unlit rooms and apertures, as though a drowning gleam resolute to break free and hover about. Inside was a maidservant's quarter, and on the makeshift bed lay the now lifeless queen who had just given birth.

She knew how to deliver a child, the maid had assured. She swore she did. But the babe had not moved nor cried since it came out- since he came out.

And so it was unnatural for such quietness to purvey at that specific time on that certain day. The silence festered, eating away the lit room that was supposed to be filled with a newborn's cries and a mother's joy.

The acolytes of Moria, the goddess of fate, already gave their warning: It was not wise for them to carry on with the pregnancy. Tragedy would accompany their providence and death would be their nemesis. But the king and queen held on to that minuscule hope of a miracle, that a phenomenon would somehow grace their ill-fraught kismet.

Alas, a sound finally emerged after minutes of unbearable stillness. A cry that started as a mere pule, gradually and tormentingly getting louder at each unnerving strike of a second. King Astyrian- for it was Astyrian- fiercely wiped the tears that seemed to incessantly stream from his rheumy eyes, age-old white beard dampened from the constant outflow. His blurry gaze fixed on her wife's head that slumped sideways, dead.

He shifted to the slab between her dangling legs, clothed in a white fabric that had been smudged with blood. With trembling hands, he reached for the infant child who's breathing might have warmed the king's cold fingers, who's smile might have melted away all his pent up worries from the past nine months, who's twinkling orbs might have already out-glimmered the stars that staggered in the deepening night sky. But it only perched lifeless in his arms, lips shut and eyes closed peacefully even in death.

Consumed by his grief, the widowed king embraced the unmoving lump of cloth close to his raging chest and sprinted towards the quarter's frail wooden door, into the waiting arms of the chilly night breeze.

He looked up to the vast openness of the sky, wrapped in its velvet cloak of darkness, and there, he screamed. Astyrian's tormented wails echoed throughout the sleeping vicinity and if not for the infant he was shakily holding, he would have torn out the slick locks of hair from his throbbing head, collapsed on the numbing ground and wallowed in utter, unyielding agony. Instead, he raised his head and hollered a cry for help- to anyone or anything. Even a shrivel of a being able to attend to his earnest supplication; to the swallowing night, the trees that slumbered, the stars that loitered, to the moon in its full glory, to the heavens...

To Elysium itself. The undying land of the gods.

AGNIS LOOKED DOWN WITH pity on the heartbroken mortal. As the promulgated goddess of the full moon, it fell under her divine court to indulge such a plea.

"The moon god has been slain!" She heard the divine messenger's voice echo throughout the pantheon. "Umbrenon has fallen! The light dims!" Tirus' bellowing words came with flashes of dream-like memories: Four figures clad in black hooded robes, a knife with its curved edges in one's grip glistening under moonlight, a driving force through the all-father's bare chest, chains dangling from his manacled limping arms, and a symbol- that of ancient magic- carved bloodily on his back. Nekrovitas. Half-dead.

"Darkness shall soon canopy the nights hereafter!" The messenger's voice snapped her out of the trance-like vision.

This was a lie, she thought. Her father governed the entirety of the moon, not its phases. It was for her and her sisters to decide whether there would be darkness or none.

And perhaps it was this, the tragedy befalling upon their opulent halls in Elysium, that imparted to her constant sombering. Maybe it was her overflowing ruth for suffering- the godly innate instinct to offer aid to those in need- that her bewildered grief wandered into thoughts under pretense forbidden among the divine.

But Agnis was a daughter first before a god, and so her decision was final. Yet in doing so, she failed to anticipate the ensuing repercussions of her grief-driven catharsis.

As a singular tear fell from the goddess' eye, the lone droplet descended from her gilded corridors, through the night sky and its blot of stars that hovered above windswept dim lit towns. It cascaded into the vicinity of Cantere Doul, and as if it did not travel the hefty stretch of distance between Elysium and the lands of men, it landed ever so gently on the infant's death-gray cheek, his lifeless visage slowly coming into being.

And so at that moment, silence no longer engulfed the kingdom of Qint. The once quiet night was now filled with a newborn's cries.

Luan Sainte, moon blessed.