Chapter 19 Unfortunate Longings
Unfortunate Longings
Aurora studied herself in the mirror. The mark of the Sun on her arm was getting bigger, the design filling in as she had more lessons with the Starmaker.
She didn’t hate it as much as she had at first, and she had come to think the way the image glowed with magic was beautiful.
Her hair was also changing, more and more strands of white the same as the Starmaker’s streaking her brown waves, shimmering in the light.
Aurora had asked him the purpose of the physical changes, and he’d said the Sun wanted all of Reverie to know her beloved at a single glance. It was something that had been passed on to each Starmaker, a physical representation of the Sun’s love for a human.
The more stories Aurora heard, the more she wondered if her love for Farren had truly been love at all.
She wanted to believe it had been, and she knew there were many different kinds of love, but she had started to ache for what the Sun and the first Starmaker had shared.
She had always been fascinated by the tragedy of the stories, and she’d told herself she would never want a love like that.
But maybe her fascination wasn’t fascination at all—maybe it was longing.
Maybe the stories were where Aurora felt safest to entrust her deepest desires.
The thought greatly unsettled her.
Perhaps it was the Sun’s light in her blood that had awoken that yearning within her. She wondered if it was possible that the Sun’s love for the original Starmaker had entered her bloodstream along with her magic, rendering Aurora’s previous contentment hollow.
When Aurora said as much to the Starmaker one day as they were riding to the glacier, getting ready to pull in the light, he answered without hesitation.
“I have always believed that to be true,” he said.
“Magic makes the world painfully beautiful, and with that comes an intense longing, as we know we will never fully appreciate the depth of it. No matter how much we want to, there is far too much for us to comprehend.”
“Are you scared to start aging?” Aurora asked, her voice quiet. There was something in the Starmaker’s tone that made her think he was reflecting on his limited years, and though she didn’t want to be rude, she wanted to know.
“No,” the Starmaker said, avoiding her gaze. “I am ready.”
“I wonder if it is that way for all of us when our time comes,” Aurora said, watching the trees as they passed.
“It was not that way for my mentor.” He rarely spoke of the third Starmaker, and Aurora turned to look at him. “He did not want to die, and I believe he would have been content to live forever.”
“Oh,” she said, unsure of how to answer. “That is sad in its own way.”
Aurora wasn’t convinced she believed what she’d said, though.
She couldn’t imagine ever being ready to lose her life; she was still at the beginning of hers and hungry for all the mountain had to offer.
Scared, but hungry. Losing that hunger, Aurora decided, would be far sadder than not wanting to die.
The Starmaker’s voice interrupted her contemplation. “It was honest. But I would much prefer peace over regret.”
“I suppose that’s all we can hope for.”
The Starmaker said nothing more, and they rode the rest of the way in silence.
When they arrived at the glacier, Aurora got out of the sleigh, then the Starmaker, and they walked to the lamppost side by side.
It was a routine they had fallen into over the weeks, one that brought immense comfort to Aurora.
She had begun all her days at the cottage in the same way, and finding a similar steadiness in her new life was a small joy she didn’t take for granted.
Aurora came to a stop when they reached the lamppost, her heart starting to race as she anticipated what was to come.
Then she was struck with a thought, one so surprising that it took her breath away: what if she wasn’t progressing because she didn’t want the Starmaker to become mortal?
What if she was trying to keep him here with her, scared to lose the one person who could truly understand her in this life?
As soon as she thought it, she knew there were truths woven within, for her eyes began burning, and she had to squeeze them shut, not wanting the Starmaker to see her sudden emotion.
She didn’t want to lose him.
It was a ridiculous desire to be sure, one that she had to push from her mind at once.
The cruel reality was that her very existence was hastening the Starmaker toward the end of his.
Her magic strengthening meant his getting weaker, and her life extending meant his getting shorter.
They were inextricably linked, and in the end, only one of them would survive: her.
It occurred to her then how deeply afraid she was of grief. An immortal who was terrified of losing the people around her—the sick humor of it twisted her stomach too tight.
The only thing that gave her comfort was knowing she had time to come to terms with the Starmaker’s eventual death.
She didn’t have to accept it right away.
He had stopped aging at nineteen, which meant that once he was mortal again, he would have many years of life ahead of him.
She clung to that fact as if it was a lifeline, and she refused to let go.
Still, though, there was the smallest whisper in the back of her mind, the faintest voice saying, I wish he didn’t have to age at all.
“I’m ready to begin,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.
“It will keep happening.” The Starmaker looked at her with an unreadable expression.
“What will?”
“The hollowing out of your insides when you think of what’s to come.”
She slowly brought her eyes to his. “Will it ever stop?”
“No, but it won’t happen as often. You will get used to your reality. But in many ways, your life will be marked by death, and that never gets easier.”
“Do you miss your mentor?” Aurora didn’t dare give voice to the thoughts she was having, but she would ask around them as if they were fire, as if touching them would burn her but getting close would keep her warm.
The Starmaker’s expression changed ever so slightly. He looked softer, in a way. Or perhaps he pitied her; that would be far worse.
“I did not know him well,” the Starmaker finally said. “But I felt a profound loneliness when he was gone.”
When Aurora could no longer bear to meet the Starmaker’s eyes, she blinked and turned away. “Let’s not keep the Sun waiting,” she said.
The Starmaker nodded, looking toward the sharp peaks of Reverie.
Without the light of the Sun, they were just shadows, so faint Aurora wouldn’t have known they were there if she hadn’t memorized their every line as a girl.
She used to sit in the center of the village and trace the peaks with her fingers, closing one eye and then the other, bringing them into focus.
Aurora wondered if that was one of the reasons the Sun had chosen her as the next Starmaker, if her love for the mountain and the stories made her the perfect fit.
The theory made her feel better, in a way.
Aurora squared her shoulders and looked toward the peaks, preparing herself to usher in the daylight.
It didn’t feel natural yet, but she was finding a rhythm that she hoped would soon enable her to progress.
She knew the Starmaker was holding back, still taking on most of the light himself so as not to overwhelm her, and while she suspected she finally understood her lack of improvement, she couldn’t push herself that morning.
As light burst between the peaks and flooded over Reverie, Aurora tried to ignore the Starmaker’s tight jaw and the subtle shaking of his body.
She didn’t know if they were signs of his frustration with her or indications that he was getting weaker as Aurora took more of his magic.
She hoped for the first but feared it was the second, and she held his hand tightly, trying to steady him.
But as soon as the Sun reached them, he quickly pulled his hand from hers and stepped up onto the lamppost, hanging the light.
“Are you well?” Aurora asked.
“Do not concern yourself with me,” he said, stepping down to the snow. “You need to focus on yourself.”
“I am perfectly capable of doing both,” she said, but as soon as the words left her mouth, she feared she had lied.
The Starmaker raised his brows, and in that moment, she knew that he too was aware of the falsehood.
She shook her head and turned away, wanting the privacy of her room and the heat of her fire.
“I’m glad to hear it,” he said, but the doubt in his voice echoed her own.
She stepped into the sleigh and the Starmaker followed, and the snow deer pulled them toward the village.
There was a peculiar case of magic gone awry they had to deal with, and Aurora was glad for the distraction, as odd as it was.
They had received reports of a streetlamp that had begun to sing a lullaby so potent that anyone who heard it fell asleep instantly, and while Aurora knew it was serious, she was eager to see it.
“While we are in the village, I would like to take a few minutes to shop,” Aurora said, hoping the change of topic would clear some of the tension between them. “You may wait in the sleigh if you prefer, but I would like to get a gift for Tilly.”
The Starmaker looked at her in surprise. “A gift?”
“I thought of it when I was showing you my collection of mirrors. I’d like to get Tilly a looking glass so that she can see herself whenever she wants.
It occurred to me that since she spends all her time outside, she likely never sees her own reflection, and I wonder if that’s part of the reason she feels so stuck—she doesn’t recognize herself in her current form. ”