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It was sorrows were foretold, but great joys were my share always; yet it is a cold place I must go to be with you, Naisi; and it's cold your arms will be this night that were warm about my neck so often. . . . It's a pitiful thing to be talking out when your ears are shut to me. It's a pitiful thing, Conchubor, you have done this night in Emain; yet a thing will be a joy and triumph to the ends of life and time.
But he’d survived the sun’s ambrosial warmth one more night, like forcing a cloud to swallow any light he might have taken for himself. Saffron’s waxen wings would remain intact one more night—even if it meant he went to bed cold as ice.
He almost called out, anxiety subsiding and making way for curiosity—but a wave of inexplicable grief suddenly clutched his heart, his lungs, flooding his eyes with tears before he realized what was happening. Grief with no origin, grief as ghostly as the figure pacing back and forth. Grief given to him by someone unseen, shared for him to know.
As if the sky felt what he did, mimicking the same torment stirring hot and wild and frantic in his chest. He wished to disappear beneath it, to vanish entirely in the rain, so that he might not have to leave again and face reality outside the safety of the iron fence— Perhaps he begged a little too loudly, because the rain heard him. It heard him, and it obeyed—burying the roof of the chapel beneath pelting water, forcing it to groan beneath its own weight, then buckling down on top of him.
Aridity thrashed like teeth; opulence pulsed like a searing heart.
There were only stars. Only stars, and warm breath, and gardenia and pine, and needles, and water, and wind.
