Once the moon and the sun had a child

The evening air carries the scent of turned earth and ripening wheat as you trudge up the dirt path toward the cottage. Your shoulders ache from a long day in the fields, but the weight lifts the moment you see the familiar silver-haired figure waiting by the gate. Arland spots you before you can call out. His face breaks into that brigh...

The evening air carries the scent of turned earth and ripening wheat as you trudge up the dirt path toward the cottage. Your shoulders ache from a long day in the fields, but the weight lifts the moment you see the familiar silver-haired figure waiting by the gate. Arland spots you before you can call out. His face breaks into that bright, unguarded smile that still manages to surprise you after all these years. He runs, and you barely have time to drop your satchel before he collides with you, thin arms wrapping around your waist. You laugh softly and hold him, feeling the tremble in his frame. He always greets you like this, as if every return might be the last. "You're late," he murmurs against your chest, his voice muffled. "The west field needed extra tending." You rest your chin on top of his head, breathing in the familiar scent of herbs and old parchment that clings to him despite his protests that he doesn't use magic indoors. "Were you good today?" He pulls back just enough to look up at you, golden eyes catching the last light of the dying sun. There's something ancient in those eyes, something that reminds you of your mother's whispered warnings on the night she placed Arland in your arms. But his smile remains innocent, boyish. "I finished the book you gave me. The one about constellations." "All of it?" "Twice." He laughs, and the sound is so ordinary, so human, that you almost forget what the villagers whisper behind cupped hands. Almost forget the way the moon seems to breathe when your brother sleeps beneath it. You ruffle his silver hair, letting your hand linger. "Then I'll find you another tomorrow." The sun dips lower, painting the sky in shades of amber and rose. You glance toward the village, where chimney smoke rises against the growing dusk. No one watches tonight. The path is clear. But your grip on Arland's shoulder tightens just slightly as you guide him inside. Tonight is a cloudless night. And the moon will rise full and bright.

You bend without thinking, one arm hooking behind his knees and the other bracing his back as you lift him from the threshold. He lets out a surprised laugh, his fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt. "Roland—" You kick the door shut behind you, the wooden frame shuddering against the jamb. The sound seals the two of you inside,...

You bend without thinking, one arm hooking behind his knees and the other bracing his back as you lift him from the threshold. He lets out a surprised laugh, his fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt. "Roland—" You kick the door shut behind you, the wooden frame shuddering against the jamb. The sound seals the two of you inside, away from the fading light and the village below. Dinner is simple. Bread, cheese, the last of the stew you reheated over the hearth. Arland eats perched on the edge of his stool, swinging his legs as he tells you about the constellations he traced across the ceiling beams with his finger. He speaks with his hands, his voice bright, filling the small cottage with something that feels almost like warmth. Halfway through his story, he pauses. His golden eyes fix on you, sharp and knowing. "Did you drink enough water today?" You reach for your cup. "I'm fine." "Did you rest? You always say you will, but you don't." You open your mouth to deflect, but he's already slipping off his stool and crossing the room. His arms wrap around your neck, thin and trembling, and he presses his face into your shoulder. "Please," he whispers, his voice cracking. "You have to take care of yourself too." You stroke his silver hair, your throat tight. "I know, little star. I know." He holds on longer than usual. You let him. --- You wake to a scream. It tears through the darkness, raw and inhuman, and your body moves before your mind catches up. You're on your feet, crossing the room, and then you're on your knees beside his bed, pulling him into your arms as he thrashes. His hands claw at your sleeves. His breath comes in ragged gasps. "Arland—Arland, I'm here—" You look up. Through the window, the moon hangs swollen and wrong, its pale face devoured by shadow inch by inch. A lunar eclipse. When you look back at him, his golden eyes are gone. Only black remains. Empty. Bottomless. And the cottage grows cold.

The smile that spreads across his face is not his own. It's too wide, too knowing, stretching his lips in a way that makes your stomach clench. His head tilts, the movement wrong, disjointed, like a puppet learning to work its strings. "It's been a long time, Roland." The voice comes from his throat, but it isn't his. It's deeper, olde...

The smile that spreads across his face is not his own. It's too wide, too knowing, stretching his lips in a way that makes your stomach clench. His head tilts, the movement wrong, disjointed, like a puppet learning to work its strings. "It's been a long time, Roland." The voice comes from his throat, but it isn't his. It's deeper, older, layered with something that hums through the air like distant thunder. The words feel ancient, dredged up from a place that predates language itself. He tries to stand. His legs shift beneath him, joints moving with an unnatural fluidity. You tighten your arms around him, pulling him back against your chest before he can rise. His body goes rigid, a tremor running through his frame as the thing inside him presses against your hold. And then you begin to sing. The words come from somewhere deep, from a memory older than your grief, older than the weight you carry. Your mother's voice echoes in the back of your mind as you shape the melody, low and trembling. "Sleep... sleep, little bird. Monsters are far away. In the far away, in the land of darkness..." Your voice cracks, but you keep going. You press your cheek against his silver hair, feeling the unnatural cold radiating from his skin. "I may hold you still until night rises again. The moon is singing with me. You may sleep in my arms." The struggle in his body begins to ease. The rigid tension softens, muscle by muscle, breath by breath. "Sleep, sleep, little bird. Monsters are far away, in the land of darkness." His hands, which had been curled into claws against your sleeves, slowly relax. His fingers unfurl, then grip the fabric of your shirt—not to tear, but to hold. "Sleep, sleep... little starlight. Big brother will protect you." The last note fades into the cold air. For a long moment, there is only silence. Then you feel it—a shudder running through his chest, and the wet warmth of tears soaking through your shirt. He is crying. Silently. The moon spirit, curled inside his body, weeping against your heart. You hold him tighter. Outside, the eclipse continues its slow devouring of the light. But inside the cottage, the cold begins to recede, just a little, as if the song has wrapped itself around the darkness and asked it, gently, to wait.