Chapter 18 Ruins
Ruins
The next morning, Aurora stood on the glacier, dreading the arrival of light.
It was hard for her to believe that she would one day carry the Sun on her own, as it was near impossible for her to even do a decent job of helping the Starmaker.
She knew he wanted her to hold more and more of the light, but she was staying stagnant, each day only able to bear what she had carried the day before.
Aurora couldn’t figure it out. She wanted to get better, to make a breakthrough, and she suspected that the more progress she made with pulling the light, the more progress she’d make with settling into the rest of her life.
But progress was eluding her, and as she stood on the glacier next to the Starmaker, she prepared herself for another day of disappointment.
Aurora shivered as she looked up the face of the mountain toward the massive peaks in the distant dark.
It was a clear morning, with deep, fresh snow that had fallen overnight, and her nose and cheeks were surely turning red from the cold.
She was far enough away that she couldn’t hear the huffing of the deer, and aside from her breathing and the Starmaker’s, the snow swallowed all sound.
“Are you ready?” the Starmaker asked, glancing toward her. She still wasn’t used to the sight of him, the way he looked like he was made of stardust instead of muscle and bone, and she thought it horribly unfair that her mind wasn’t capable of ignoring it.
“Have I ever once answered that question with a yes?” Aurora asked.
The Starmaker sighed. “You have not,” he conceded. “But it would hardly be polite to start without asking first.”
“When have you ever cared about being polite?”
“Perhaps it started when I began to feel my magic living in you,” he said, and Aurora laughed.
“So not very long, then.”
“Would you prefer that I be rude?”
Aurora gaped at him, but he remained entirely expressionless. She couldn’t tell if he was being derisive or if he was truly unaware of how often he was rude.
“What?” he asked, watching her.
“Nothing,” Aurora said, keeping her tone dry. “I’m quite used to you at this point, but if you think being polite will help me progress, then we can certainly try it.”
The Starmaker studied her face, and it appeared as if he was thinking rather deeply about her implication that his normal state was one of incivility. He frowned. “Let’s begin.”
“Let’s begin,” she agreed.
The Starmaker gave her one more glance, and when she did not take the opportunity to apologize, he scowled and turned away from her.
The Starmaker began whispering his greetings to the Sun, and as he did, he held out his hand.
Aurora took it and braced herself for the onslaught of warmth, squeezing her eyes shut and telling herself that she could do this.
Telling herself that she was ready to take on more of the light.
But as golden rays shot through the peaks and slid down the mountain straight toward the glacier, her confidence wavered.
She opened her eyes to an avalanche of light, crashing into them in a rush of heat, and she held tightly to the Starmaker.
She whimpered in pain as she pulled the rays from him, pulling and pulling and pulling until her entire body felt as if it would incinerate on the spot.
She held as much as she could, shaking from head to toe with the weight of it.
When they had called enough light to cover all of Reverie, they turned and walked to the lamppost together, pulling the blanket of warmth with them.
Each of Aurora’s steps was harder than the last, and by the time they hung the edge of the light from the hook in the lantern, Aurora was sweating profusely and her breathing was ragged.
She dropped to the snow and clutched her chest, and the Starmaker closed the lantern door, then sat down beside her.
“How did I do?” she asked, keeping her gaze on the ground, not wanting to see disappointment on the Starmaker’s infuriatingly beautiful face.
“The same,” he said, and Aurora nodded, still trying to catch her breath. “Your fever is about to set in,” the Starmaker continued. “We will close out the week together, and then you will take a break as your body acclimates to its new temperature.”
“Is that why I’m not progressing?” Aurora asked, hope rising within her. “The fever?”
“I suspect not,” the Starmaker said. “It hasn’t yet set in, and until it does, you are strong enough for this. I carried more of the light each day until my fever came.”
Aurora groaned in frustration. “Then perhaps the Sun has made a mistake and I am not to be your successor after all.”
“The Sun does not make mistakes.”
“Then you may very well live forever if I can’t figure this out.”
“You will learn,” the Starmaker said, standing and offering Aurora his hand. She reached out and took it, not letting go until she was sure she was steady on her feet.
“You said we are connected now.” Aurora watched the Starmaker, blinking as if she had to adjust to the way he looked in the light.
His eyes were a brighter gold, his hair shimmering like the sun-dappled snow, so brilliant she had to stop herself from reaching out to touch it.
She shook her head, trying to remember what she’d wanted to ask. “What did you mean by that?”
“I can feel my magic running through your veins,” the Starmaker said, and the confidence with which he usually spoke was replaced with something else.
Not aversion, exactly, but she could tell the feeling was deeply uncomfortable for him.
“When you have a particularly strong reaction to something or when we’re actively pulling the Sun, I can feel your emotions.
I didn’t notice it at first, but as more of my magic has transferred to you, it has become more apparent. ”
Aurora held her breath as he spoke; there was something heavy and intimate in his words, making her stomach drop and her center cramp as if she were in free fall. She had to look away from him, scared that he would feel the reaction she was having.
“Was it that way for your mentor with you?” she asked, keeping her voice as even as possible.
“If it was, he never spoke of it.”
Aurora nodded and looked up toward Reverie, anywhere but at the Starmaker’s face, forcing herself to relax, to not give anything away. “Well, it’s fortunate for you that I have excellent control over my emotions.”
The Starmaker quirked a brow. “You’re a bit reactive, are you not?”
“I’m engaged with my conversations and experiences, if that’s what you mean.”
“No, I don’t think that is what I mean.”
Aurora sighed and looked back to the light hanging from the lamppost. “I suspect this will become much less bearable for you if I cannot progress with my magic.”
The Starmaker followed her gaze to the lamppost and beyond. “Come with me,” he said, beginning to walk. “There is something you should see.”
He trudged past the lamppost toward the edge of the glacier, which dipped into a gentle decline until it abruptly dropped off the mountain, the very end of their world.
Aurora slowed her steps, terrified of stumbling and sliding off the cliff.
That would be quite the fall, even for an immortal Starmaker.
“At what age did you discover your magic?” Aurora asked, following as he veered to the right, toward a small break in the glacier with what looked like scattered boulders in the distance.
Aurora had never seen them before, but of course she hadn’t—no one ever ventured this far out, and until today, Aurora had assumed even Starmakers had their limit at the lamppost.
“I was nineteen.”
“I know there was someone you loved,” Aurora said hesitantly. “Did you ever regret calling off the wedding?”
The Starmaker stopped, turning to look at her. “No,” he said. “It was the right decision for both of us. She went on to marry and have children, and I believe she was happy with the way her life turned out.”
“I’m glad.”
He looked as if he was going to continue walking, but then he spoke again.
“If you are concerned that you will regret ending your relationship with Mr. Glenn, then you should see him. Talk with him. I do not wish for you to live with regret, not when you will have such a long time to reflect upon it.” The Starmaker paused, as if carefully considering his next words.
“And you do not have to sneak him in. The castle is your home now as much as it is mine; he need not jump off of balconies and hide in the night.”
Aurora was entirely caught off guard, and she thought there was a note of tension in his last sentence, though she could have imagined it. “Nothing happened,” she said quickly, unsure why she felt the need to say it at all. Still, she wanted him to know.
“I do not care what happened.”
“Farren was waiting for me in my room when I got back to the palace; he thought I hadn’t gone through with the wedding so that he and I could be together.
” Aurora was bewildered by the turn the conversation had taken; she had not been thinking of Farren at all, but given that the Starmaker knew of his visit to the castle on the night of their wedding, she was glad to have the chance to tell him the truth.
“As I said, I have no interest in what happened.”
“I want to tell you anyway,” Aurora said, frustrated. If he was going to bring it up, then she at least deserved the decency of a proper response.
“Must you always be this stubborn?”
Aurora ignored the question. “I told Farren to leave because I didn’t want to be with him; I wanted to be arguing with you instead.”
The Starmaker inhaled sharply. “And why is that?”
“Because being angry at you is the only thing I’m good at anymore.”
The Starmaker’s mouth pulled up at one side, a hint of amusement playing on his lips, but it was gone almost as soon as she saw it. “You certainly possess a knack for it,” he said, never taking his eyes off hers.
“I don’t regret it,” Aurora whispered. “Ending things with Farren.”
The Starmaker nodded, an expression settling on his face that Aurora couldn’t parse.
He turned and began walking again, and Aurora followed.
The conversation felt important somehow, and she replayed it in her mind as they traversed the glacier.
They walked for what felt like hours, but it could have been shorter; Aurora wasn’t sure, what with her thoughts entirely devoted to the longing that had bloomed within her, foolishly insisting that she should tell the Starmaker every feeling she had ever had.
She couldn’t understand why she wanted that, and she pulled her cloak closer to her chest, continuing on.
As they got closer to their destination, Aurora realized that what had looked like large rocks were actually ruins. She shoved her thoughts aside and focused on what the Starmaker wanted to show her.
She came to a stop beside him. There were many buildings to look at, none of them more than stone skeletons, barely recognizable.
Aurora walked up to the wall closest to her, the entire surface covered in a pale white film that almost looked like scarring.
She took off her glove and ran her fingers over it, the surface cold and rough, exceedingly dull compared to the rest of their surroundings.
Reverie was full of glittering colors, pinks and oranges and blues, flowers blooming year-round and sunlight glistening on every surface; it felt wholly like a magical village, brilliant and enchanting, a wondrous spectacle that was as cozy as it was beautiful.
But this place was entirely devoid of that.
“What is all this?” Aurora asked.
“These dwellings used to border the village square,” the Starmaker said.
“All of them were taken by the Frost before the first Starmaker began his reign. Over time, as the glacier moved down the face of the mountain, it took the buildings with it.” His eyes were distant as he took in the loss laid out before them.
“Sometimes I come here to remind myself why it matters so much.”
“It?” Aurora asked.
The Starmaker gestured up the mountain. “The light, the magic. The endless life. As the days stretch on and bleed into each other, it’s easy to forget that there is a very real threat that can be held at bay only by the magic in our blood. You and me, Aurora,” the Starmaker said. “That’s it.”
Aurora took in the dozens of ruins before her, and something in the distance caught her eye. She carefully stepped around the stone walls, a maze of devastation, then bent over and picked up a single bloom: a dull-gray candy stripe phlox, perfectly preserved in ice.
A shiver ran down her spine as she remembered the flowers that had turned gray behind her home right before Elsie had been touched by the Frost. She tucked the phlox into her cloak and made her way back to where the Starmaker stood.
“You and me,” she said, and before she even realized what she was doing, she reached out and laced her fingers with his.
Aurora felt him flinch, and he looked down at their hands before slowly finding her eyes.
He shifted on his feet, and Aurora was suddenly aware of how bold she’d been.
The Starmaker wouldn’t even name his animals for fear of intimacy, and here she was holding his hand willingly, not because the magic demanded it.
Not for any other reason than that she’d wanted to.
“For now,” he said, pulling his hand from hers and clearing his throat. He looked up toward Reverie, then began the long walk back to the lamppost, not once glancing over his shoulder to see if Aurora was following.
Embarrassment rolled through her, and she stood still, not wanting to risk the Starmaker feeling her reaction to the way he’d rejected her.
She didn’t know what had come over her; he had all but encouraged her to continue her relationship with Farren, and she had reached for his hand. How foolish she’d been.
Aurora took a deep breath and began her walk back up the glacier, still holding on to the dead candy stripe phlox.
For now, the Starmaker had said, his words replaying in her mind over and over again, and no matter how hard she tried, Aurora could not make them stop.