Chapter 27 Beginning and End
Beginning and End
Aurora did not intend to confront the Starmaker right away.
When she arrived back at the castle, she went straight to her room and did not speak to anyone, not even when Frederick asked if she was all right or when Ina said she’d been worried.
But after hours of pacing in her bedroom, unable to quiet her mind, she could not wait any longer.
She threw on a long silk robe over her sleeping gown and stormed to the Starmaker’s room. If she could not sleep, then neither would he.
When she reached the narrow staircase, Aurora took the steps two at a time and burst through the door without a single knock.
The Starmaker wasn’t in bed, though, and Aurora swallowed the disappointment of not waking him.
Instead, he was sitting by the fire, reading a book of poetry and nursing a cup of tea.
Constance was resting in his lap, and Aurora tried to ignore the ache it created in her chest.
“This is undoubtedly my least favorite habit of yours,” the Starmaker said, not looking up from his poem.
“I know your secret,” Aurora said, walking over to him and taking the book from his hands.
Constance jumped to the floor, and the Starmaker sighed, finally meeting Aurora’s eyes.
It didn’t make any sense how vibrant he was, how healthy he looked.
He seemed every bit the immortal, and it was hard to reconcile his appearance with the truth that he was dying.
“And what secret is that?” he asked, the firelight casting shadows on his face.
“That you will die as soon as I fully come into my magic.” She could barely get the words out, and she was embarrassed by the way her voice shook.
She wanted to stay angry at him, to tear around his room and scream and shout, but the admission took everything out of her, and she sank down to the floor.
“You may take my chair,” the Starmaker said.
“I do not want your chair.”
He studied her for a long time, not saying a word. He took slow sips of his tea until it was gone, then settled back into his seat, and Aurora was unsure if he didn’t know what to say, if he was upset, or if he truly was just annoyed at having been interrupted.
“We are going to need more tea,” the Starmaker said, and after he rang his bell, neither of them spoke until a staff member delivered a silver cart with a full tea service and biscuits. Aurora poured herself a full cup, took two biscuits, then sat back down and waited.
“Yes,” he finally said, the single word piercing Aurora like an ice pick through her ribs. “I will die when you fully come into your magic.”
“How could you not tell me?” she asked, her voice nothing more than a whisper, unable to hide the betrayal she felt, the utter helplessness. Constance hopped over and came to rest at her feet.
“I wanted to protect you,” he said, the gentleness in his voice rousing her anger once more. She didn’t want him to be gentle, not now. She wanted him to be obnoxiously steadfast in his belief that he had done her a service; at least then it would be easier to stay mad.
“You have done nothing but make this harder on me.” Aurora’s voice was rising, and she hoped he could see the fury in her eyes.
“That was not my intent. My mentor told me almost immediately when he would die, and I wished he hadn’t.
It slowed my progress with my magic, I made both of us ill by resisting it longer than I should have, and in the end, I spent more time mourning him than getting to know him.
I should have used that time to ask questions and try to understand the life I was stepping into.
You have done that, Aurora, and I don’t know that you would have had I been honest about the transfer of magic. ”
“Transfer?” Aurora asked, disgusted by the word. “You mean your life for mine. Your death. Don’t dress it up in nicer language on my account.”
“Yes, my death,” the Starmaker said. “This is how it has always been and how it must be.”
“No.” Aurora set her plate and tea aside, getting on her knees in front of the Starmaker.
Tears welled in her eyes and fell down her cheeks as she took his hands in hers and grasped them tightly.
She looked up at him, his beautiful face blurred through her tears, but she did not care that he saw her cry.
“No,” she said again. “I will let this mountain crumble before I will lose you.”
The Starmaker slowly slid off his chair, sinking down to his knees on the floor so he was eye to eye with Aurora. He pulled his hand free and pushed her hair back from her face. “You won’t,” he said, and Aurora wanted so badly to argue with him, to tell him he was wrong.
“I will not watch you die.”
“You will not have a choice,” he said, the sternness she knew so well finding its way into his tone.
“We’ll see about that.”
“Aurora.” The Starmaker spoke her name in a whisper, and he searched her face as if he was looking for a solution to an unsolvable puzzle, the very key to life itself. His fingers trailed down her cheek and onto her neck. “So stubborn.”
“Do not placate me,” she said, even as she leaned into his touch.
“And what would you have me do instead?” he murmured, pressing his forehead to hers.
Aurora closed her eyes, trying to stop her tears, trying to block out the visions of the Starmaker’s breath fading away to nothing. “Kiss me,” she said.
She wasn’t sure if he would do it or not, but almost as soon as she said it, his mouth was on hers.
The first thing she noticed was salt on her tongue, and it felt oddly intimate that the Starmaker was tasting her tears.
He kissed her softly, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, holding on as if she could prevent him from going if only she held tightly enough.
She would hold on and on and on, and not let go.
“This cannot be the end,” Aurora said, her voice shaking, her fingers in his hair.
“It is your beginning,” he said simply.
“Don’t you dare act like this is somehow favorable for me,” she replied, her voice rising again. She hated how calm he was being, how steady he was when she felt as if an earthquake was rocking her core, leaving all of her pieces scattered.
The Starmaker shook his head, and Aurora could see him working through it all, wondering how it had come to this, how he had ended up on the floor of his bedroom, clinging to the very person who was destroying him.
Aurora was quiet, slowly gathering the courage to ask what she needed to know. “Tell me how it will happen,” she finally said.
The Starmaker looked conflicted, as if he was trying to deduce whether telling her would make it easier on her or far worse.
“Please tell me,” she said.
The Starmaker sighed. “It will happen when we perform the ritual transferring my remaining magic to you. It will not be violent or gory, just quiet. The castle will send a sleigh to the glacier with a casket to collect my body, and it will be held in the sanctuary until my burial. My body will remain as it is now, the remnants of magic enough to sustain it.” The Starmaker looked down, and Aurora knew he was remembering when he’d lost his own mentor.
“It will be as peaceful an end as anyone could hope for.”
“I am glad for that.”
“As am I,” he said, hesitating before he continued. “It will be difficult, but you will learn to live without me.”
“I will not,” Aurora said, her anger returning. She sat up and looked at the Starmaker with staunch defiance. She would never let him go, not unless the Sun herself appeared as a human once more and tore the Starmaker from Aurora’s arms. And even then, she would not let it happen without a fight.
“You must,” the Starmaker said, standing up and pacing around the room.
Aurora was taken aback by the way his voice turned angry, aggressive, but she did not yield.
She stood up as well and watched him as he shoved his hand through his ice-colored hair.
Hers was almost a perfect match now; only one section of brown remained.
“If you must be angry, it ought to be at the Sun, not me,” she said, crossing her arms.
At that, the Starmaker stalked toward her, his face so close that she could brush his skin with her lips if she tilted her head just right.
“Shall we speak of anger?” he asked, seething.
“I was ready to die, Aurora. I had accepted my fate before you came along, and for that, I am angry with you. I’m irate.
You took what little peace I had and ruined it, and I may never forgive you. ”
“Fine,” Aurora said, getting even closer, refusing to back down. “Don’t. Be irate. Be unforgiving. Hate me and curse my name to the ends of this mountain. Anything is better than your readiness to step into your grave.”
“What would you have me do?” the Starmaker asked through gritted teeth, fire in his eyes. “This is the way it is, and I could no sooner change it than steal the stars from the sky.”
Aurora stared at him in disbelief. “I don’t know, but you have to do something. Anything. This entire mountain is drenched in magic, is only able to exist because of it. You may end up failing, but do you not owe it to yourself to try?”
“I owe it to myself to live out the remainder of my life in as much contentment as possible. I do not want to die screaming about how things could have been, and I certainly will not spend my limited time searching for a solution that does not exist.” The Starmaker sat on the edge of his bed, putting his head in his hands.
He exhaled, frustrated and slow. “Why must everything be a fight with you?”
“Because you are worth fighting for, and if you will not try everything you can to stay on this Earth with me, then I will do it myself.”
The Starmaker shook his head, looking up at her.
“Do you not think I want that? Do you not think I lie awake at night, utterly wrecked that the only person I would ever want an eternity with is the very one who is bringing forth the end of my life?” His eyes pleaded with her, and he looked so pained.
“I cannot spend the remainder of my days enraged that we did not get enough time, though you must know it is a regret I will carry to my grave.”
Aurora felt all of the fight leave her at once, and she slowly walked to the Starmaker, sitting down on the bed next to him.
Constance was lying in front of the fire, a little rabbit silhouette that watched them intently, and as ridiculous as it was, her presence made Aurora feel better.
She took the Starmaker’s hand in hers and ran her fingers over his knuckles.
“You rest,” she finally said, meeting his eyes. “I have no such scruples about being enraged.”
The Starmaker laughed at that, a defeated, sad sound. “No, I should not think you would.”
Aurora lay back, pulling the Starmaker with her, and they silently stared at the ceiling.
After a while, he fell asleep, but Aurora was restless, looking at the mural above her while she listened to the Starmaker breathe.
It was vast, covering the entirety of the ceiling, a painting depicting the Sun and the first Starmaker lying together on Reverie’s glacier, covered in light.
It was a romantic, whimsical image, but the longer Aurora looked at it, the angrier she got.
Theirs was not the only love story that mattered.
The painting shifted then, the Sun fading away, leaving the Starmaker on his own.
He slowly stood and wandered the glacier, looking as if he had lost something.
Then he stopped and tilted his head toward the sky, staring after the Sun, tears streaming down his face.
When one fell from the ceiling and landed on Aurora’s cheek, she could not watch any longer.
She turned away and closed her eyes, succumbing to a fitful sleep.