Tempered by Rain
Collin’s elbow ached against the table’s edge.
He scrubbed his fingers through his hair, then pressed his palm to his temple, nails digging lightly into his scalp—as if clawing clarity from bone might summon the ending faster.
His eyes darted down the page, hunting for the protagonist’s fate with the urgency of a man drowning in someone else’s tragedy.
And then—nothing. The chapter ended. The hero lingered in limbo.
With a growl of disdain, Collin snapped the book shut. Why must writers torment their characters?
He tossed a glance at the clock on the mantel.
Already late. Would a few more minutes make a difference?
He eyed the book’s faded cover, longing to dive back in.
But escapism had claimed enough of his time today.
The real world, flawed and unedited as it was, waited—unimpressed by his literary anguish.
With reluctant fingers, he slid the book aside.
It was the final bonfire night of the year.
Skipping it wasn’t an option. Winter would close in soon enough, and they’d each vanish into its white silence—Arion to White Wood, Logan to Nereid, Nic to whatever wilderness beckoned to him again.
Even those staying behind would be scattered—by snow, by silence, by life.
The previous winter hadn’t just crept in; it had taken root, a bitter lodger overstaying its welcome.
The air felt sharper, the silence heavier, and the cold—well, the cold got into everything.
Collin knew, rationally, that the weather hadn’t shifted so drastically.
But try explaining that to the chill in his bones or the dread in his chest. Days blurred into a gray smear behind foggy windows.
The snow never stopped falling—it only paused long enough to gather breath before resuming its quiet siege.
There were no spontaneous outings, no last-minute fishing rods hurled over shoulders, no town runs that turned into lazy, laughter-filled afternoons.
Even the little joys vanished like breath in frost. People stopped making plans.
Then they stopped trying. Each person, it seemed, had shrunk into themselves like embers beneath ash.
He had watched storm after storm twist across the mountainscape, huddled in the same worn chair, chin propped on knuckles, a mug of cold tea forgotten at his side.
The snow clung to the world outside as fiercely as restlessness clung to him.
Even chopping firewood—a task once meditative in its rhythm—felt like flailing at ghosts.
His body demanded movement; his mind, escape.
And indoors... Claustrophobia took on new dimensions.
The house felt like a ship in a bottle tipped on its side, beautiful in theory, maddening in practice.
He bickered with Aries about how to salt the porch, then argued with Hadria about who had eaten the last of the preserves.
The lovers had their own theatrics—resentments aired in bursts of sarcasm and long silences—and Collin, perpetually caught in the crossfire, soon found himself longing for the kind of solitude now so rare.
Eventually, he retreated into the one corner of the house untouched by pettiness or cabin fever, his father’s old study.
Dust thick enough to write poetry in, books that smelled like paper and time.
As he sorted and shelved each one, he began to read them again—not out of nostalgia, but necessity.
There were worlds inside those pages that didn’t feel frigid or heavy or stuck.
Worlds where people suffered bravely, acted foolishly, fought valiantly—where the stakes were high and the language beautiful.
He remembered passages he once knew by heart, characters who had once seemed like cousins.
They met him again like they’d been waiting for him.
Spring returned in bursts—wildflowers cracking through slush, sunlight that lingered a few minutes longer each evening.
The world thawed, and so did he. When school resumed, he attacked his old duties with a half-hearted vigor that surprised even him.
But as the days wore on, fairytales and art projects could no longer hold his attention.
He began to dread the sing-song reading circles and sticky-fingered chaos. He needed something with teeth.
Lekyi saw it, thankfully. With his help, Collin launched a study group for older students—something rigorous, something real.
To his surprise, it flourished. Soon he was spending hours tutoring students on difficult texts, guiding them through independent projects, challenging their arguments and sharpening their thinking.
He found himself drafting lesson plans again—not out of duty, but desire.
Summer passed in a haze of debate and discovery.
By autumn, Collin was fully immersed. His days were full of students on the cusp of real understanding, and his nights were spent reading over their essays, sketching feedback in the margins.
He caught himself smiling at odd moments, humming as he crossed the square toward the meeting hall.
It hadn’t happened all at once, this quiet resurgence, but looking back now, he realized he was happy.
Not ecstatic, not euphoric—but grounded. Satisfied. Awake.
As Collin approached the clearing, the usual crackle of bonfire revelry was conspicuously absent.
No raucous laughter, no music bouncing off the tree trunks.
Maybe yesterday’s drizzle had dampened more than the ground, but really, it hadn’t amounted to much, and the evening was perfectly clear now.
He’d missed the previous gathering; maybe that one had been thinly attended too.
The novelty had worn off. The first bonfire night of the season had drawn everyone out like moths after a long winter, but now, the flame was burning low.
And indeed, the crowd was sparse. Instead of the usual ring of roaring pyres, only two fires had been lit.
A cluster of musicians fiddled with half-hearted harmonies, their melodies floating thin and unfinished.
Collin helped himself to a bite from the food table and drifted aimlessly through the clearing, exchanging the expected nods and breezy greetings.
It took twenty minutes of polite small talk, dodging half-recognized faces and scanning the thinning crowd, before he finally spotted Aries and Hadria near the edge of the sand court, both looking like they’d rather be anywhere else.
“You finally made it. We were just about to leave,” Aries called.
Collin checked his watch. “It’s still early. Where is everyone?”
“You just missed Lekyi and Arion,” Aries said, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper despite no one being close enough to overhear. “I reminded them about our meeting next week, but Arion said they're heading to White Wood. Lekyi didn’t exactly beam with enthusiasm either.”
Collin raked a hand through his hair, squinting out across the emptying field. The sand pit, usually a swirl of shouting, laughing bodies, held only two archers lobbing arrows at a target while a few spectators loitered nearby in lukewarm support. He turned back to Aries. “Did you see Nic?”
“Only for a second. Right after we got here.”
Collin stifled a groan. “I wanted to ask if he’s still planning on going to the Cove. I guess I’ll have to—”
“Wait, are you actually thinking of joining him?” Hadria cut in, brows arching. “I don’t see the appeal in roughing it out there.”
“The appeal is substantial,” Collin replied, sharper than intended. “But that’s not why. I was going to ask if he’d come with me to Nereid.”
Hadria opened her mouth for a retort, but Aries quickly jumped in, feigning cheer. “Oh! Did you hear back from Leif? Honestly, Nereid sounds like a perfect fit. Especially since you’ve already alphabetized every book in your father’s archive twice.”
Collin rolled his eyes. That wasn’t exaggeration—it was a cry for help.
He knew what Aries was doing, defusing tension, trying to get a little breathing room from the constant three’s-a-crowd dynamic they’d been stuck in too long.
The couple needed space, and frankly, Collin was more than happy to give it.
Another season packed into a house with those two and he’d be composing bitter sonnets by lanternlight in the snow
“I got a missive a few days ago,” he said. “Leif has several openings and asked me to bring someone else. I figured I’d check with Nic before he commits to another trek through the wilderness.”
“Try him tomorrow at his place,” Hadria offered, her tone hovering just short of curt.
Collin gave her a nod and a neutral “thanks,” biting down the sarcasm trying to creep in.
His friendship with Hadria had frayed badly over the past winter—another casualty of close quarters and prolonged strain.
He still loved her like a sister. Which, ironically, made her all the more exasperating.
He could manage her in small, measured doses.
But if he wanted to salvage what remained of their friendship—and his own mental well-being—he needed distance. Preferably the far away Nereid kind.
Aries and Hadria departed not long after, leaving Collin alone in the thinning crowd. But he wasn’t ready to retreat to solitude just yet—not after dragging himself away from that infuriating book. He might as well make the most of the evening.
A knife-throwing challenge was just getting underway, and he joined in with more enthusiasm than skill. After two quick losses and one narrow, glorious win, he bowed out before his luck turned and headed toward the music.