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Even now, with that bond again flowing between us like a river of star-flecked night, the echo of its vanishing lingered.
“It’s hard sometimes,” I admitted, staring toward the snow-coated field outside the house, the training rings and dwellings beyond it, “to
remember that she picked it. Picked me. That it’s not like my parents, shoved together.”
If I wanted to talk, he’d listen. If I didn’t want to, he would let it go. It had been our unspoken bargain from the start—to listen when the other needed, and give space when it was required.
I’ve always been able to talk to you. I think my heart knew you were mine long before I ever realized it.”
“I love you,” he breathed. “More than life, more than my territory, more than my crown.”
followed her High Lord and Lady through the darkness and back into the light.
“I have to create, or it was all for nothing. I have to create, or I will crumple up with despair and never leave my bed. I have to create because I have no other way of voicing this.” Her hand rested on her heart, and my eyes burned. “It is hard,” the weaver said, her stare never leaving mine, “and it hurts, but if I were to stop, if I were to let this loom or the spindle go silent …” She broke my gaze at last to look to her tapestry. “Then there would be no Hope shining in the Void.”
On the top: flowers. In the middle: flames. And on the bottom, widest layer … stars.
The same design of the chest of drawers I’d once painted in that dilapidated cottage. One for each of us—each sister. Those stars and moons sent to me, my mind, by my mate, long before we’d ever met.
