Chapter 31 The Endless After
The Endless After
Aurora dressed slowly, watching herself in the mirror.
Only a few strands of her hair remained brown, and her blue eyes swirled with gold.
Her Sun’s mark caught the candlelight, and the design shimmered against her fair skin, nearly complete.
There was an almost imperceptible gap at the very top, and Aurora knew that by the end of the day, that gap would be gone, and so too would Caspian.
Her eyes burned, but Aurora refused to cry. She worried that if she started, she would not stop, and so she would have to save it for later, when she had the time she needed for her tears to run dry.
When Aurora reached the dining room, she was startled to find everyone who worked at the castle gathered there.
Caspian was speaking to each and every person, expressing his gratitude for the way they had cared for him and his home.
He was almost to the end of the line, and when he came to Ina, Aurora had to turn away, the pain on Ina’s face too much to bear.
“We’ve known this day was coming,” Caspian said, addressing everyone in the room, his voice even and calm as if he were handing out a list of chores for the day instead of saying his final goodbye.
“It has been my absolute honor to serve not only as your Starmaker but as your friend. I have had an exceptional life, and I am grateful.”
Aurora was still standing in the entryway, not wanting to interrupt but unable to make herself leave, and Caspian turned to her. “You have a new Starmaker now, one who is more than worthy of the title. My only regret is not getting to see her reign.”
Everyone in the room turned their eyes to Aurora, but she could feel herself losing her composure, and she took a shaky breath, trying to hold herself together. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, looking at Caspian. “I can’t do this.”
She left the room, retrieving her cloak and gloves, and walked outside to the waiting sleigh.
She moved to each snow deer in turn, petting their snouts and running her fingers through their fur, trying to focus on anything other than the ritual awaiting her.
She walked around the castle and picked a bundle of roses, tucking them beneath her cloak, and when she finally stepped into the sleigh and pulled the blanket over her lap, Caspian was exiting the palace along with all of the household staff.
Aurora watched as they lined up on the steps to see their Starmaker off, and it made the ache in her chest scream.
“You should have addressed them,” Caspian said when he was seated on the bench beside her.
“I know,” she whispered. “But I couldn’t find the right thing to say.”
“There is no right thing.” He took her hand beneath the blanket. “Most of them won’t remember the words you speak, anyway; they will remember how you made them feel. Do not let your silence speak for you.”
Aurora nodded. “I will make it right when I arrive back at the palace.”
With that, the snow deer began to pull, the sleigh gliding away from the castle. Aurora looked back then to see all of the staff waving after them, and when Caspian turned and put one hand in the air, she had to swallow her tears.
“Will you promise me something?” he asked when they were out of view of the palace, turning to face her. Aurora kept her eyes on the trail ahead, and Caspian gently placed his fingertips on her chin and forced her to look at him. “Please do not deny me my favorite thing to look at.”
Aurora blinked. She swallowed hard and raised her eyes to his. “What is it?”
“Do not let my choices influence your own. I chose isolation because it was what I could live with.” He paused, his eyes sad. “But it turns out that what I needed most was you. You, Aurora. You showed me what it was to live when I had forgotten.”
“Caspian,” Aurora began, but he kept speaking.
“Promise me you won’t forget.”
With tears in her eyes, she nodded. “I promise.”
They were quiet for the remainder of the ride.
Aurora sensed that was what Caspian wanted, and he watched as they glided past the trees, taking in their surroundings as if it were his first time seeing them.
Aurora had to turn her face away. He acted resigned to what was to come while she was desperate to change it, and though she was glad that he’d be able to die with peace in his heart, she was outraged that it seemed so easy for him to leave her.
All of his affairs were in order, down to the exact location he was to be buried, where his body would feed the land for years to come.
Villagers would visit his grave and leave him flowers, thanking him for his reign as well as the magic he continued to give to the mountain.
He would be remembered for what he was instead of who he was, but Aurora would remember him for both.
When the sleigh came to a stop on the glacier, the snow deer began to whine as if they too knew what was about to happen.
Caspian stepped out and gently petted each of his deer, placing his forehead against their snouts and closing his eyes.
Aurora’s chest felt as if it was on fire, and she stayed motionless as she waited for him, not wanting to take away from the moments she was not meant to be part of.
“Aurora,” Caspian said, and she blinked at him. He had stepped away from the deer, and he was watching her with careful eyes. “I am ready.”
“And what if I am not?” She said the words through gritted teeth, and she wasn’t sure if Caspian heard her or not. But then he walked over to her and pulled her hand from her cloak, holding it in his.
“You will be okay.” He said it with finality, then began his walk to the lamppost for the last time.
Aurora walked with him and did not pull her hand from his because she knew she would regret it if she did.
But she wanted to fight against all of this, to tear her hand away and race into the woods where none of this could touch her, find a place where she could hide from the inevitable. As if such a place existed.
Caspian looked up at the lamppost and ran his free hand over the cold metal, and Aurora felt broken because she couldn’t understand his love for the Sun or for the magic, couldn’t understand how he had accepted his fate.
She would never say it out loud, but in some ways she envied him, and in that moment she was terrified that she would spend the rest of her very long life angry and resentful.
She didn’t want that, but she also didn’t know how to prevent it. She was angry, and she wouldn’t pretend that she wasn’t.
“I wept,” Caspian said, pulling Aurora from her thoughts. “On the day my mentor died, I fell to my knees and wept. I did not know him the way you know me, but I assure you that whatever it is you’re feeling, I felt some fraction of it, too.”
Aurora looked at him then, her eyes burning. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I was exhausted and ready to pass the mountain to the next Starmaker. Connection has never been a talent of mine, and you somehow forced it to happen against my will. But now…” He trailed off, looking up at the sky.
A light snow had started to fall, and several flakes landed on his eyelashes.
Aurora had the incredible urge to dust them off and keep them in her pocket, though such fantasies were foolish.
They were no more lasting than the Starmaker.
“But now?”
“You aren’t alone, Aurora. I have stood exactly where you are and felt all the despair and hopelessness and anger that you are feeling now. I survived it, and so can you.”
Aurora could no longer hold back her tears, and they fell freely even as she tried to blink them away.
“You are so strong,” Caspian said, brushing a stray piece of hair behind her ear.
“I don’t want to do this.” Aurora pulled her eyes from his, wiping her cheeks on her cloak. “I don’t want you to say your goodbyes wrapped in words you think will hearten me.”
“I am not being insincere.”
“No,” Aurora said, walking in circles around the lamppost, staring down at the footprints she was leaving behind in the snow. “But you are being polished and rehearsed. Be present with me. Feel whatever it is you feel, and I will do the same.”
Caspian nodded once. “Fine,” he said, his composure breaking. “Then I must tell you that the only solace I take in dying is knowing that my magic will help sustain the earth you walk upon, and my deepest hope is that you feel it with every step you take.”
Aurora moved closer to him, so close she could feel his breath upon her skin, could feel his exhales as if they were her own. “And I must tell you that death is not strong enough to keep me from you, and every step I take will be in search of the gate that will lead me back to you.”
Caspian grimaced, and Aurora knew it was because he did not want her to spend her days looking for something that did not exist. But he did not reprimand her or object. Instead, he put his hands on either side of her face, looked into her eyes, and said, “If anyone can defy death, it is you.”
He pulled her into him, kissing her with the passion and longing of all the kisses they would not have.
Aurora melted into him, ignoring the way her tears dripped off her chin like winter rain, ignoring the way his kiss was saying goodbye when she still could not accept it.
Caspian pressed his lips to her eyelids, her cheeks, her jaw, her neck, and when he finally pulled away, his eyes were red and wet.
He trailed his fingers down her face, wiping away her tears, and with a heavy breath, he lowered his arm.
For one beat of Aurora’s heart, they were both still, frozen to the ground beneath them.
Then Caspian took her hand, and they turned to face the peaks of Reverie together.
There was nothing more to say, and when Caspian called to the Sun for the final time, Aurora was ready.
The light burst between the peaks in a brilliant glimmer, vibrant rays stretching over the snow-covered landscape, illuminating the village center and coming straight for them.
Aurora watched Caspian as he caught the light with complete composure, even though the weight of it was too much for him now.
“I will love you forever,” she whispered.
“Then perhaps I am immortal after all.”
They held on to each other tightly as Aurora readied herself for the Sun, but she did not speak of magic or duty or warmth. Instead, she spoke her truth: “I hate you for taking him from me.”
The Sun’s voice surrounded Aurora, and even as she glared at the light, she could not deny the beauty of it, the way the sound seemed to magnify every other sense until she was seeing Reverie through a different lens.
She heard the seeds beneath the earth as they grew, the roots of the trees as they reached out to each other, and the heartbeats of beasts as they welcomed the morning light.
She heard it all, everything, the world and the stars beyond, all wrapped up in the Sun’s celestial voice.
The Sun sets on one
to rise on another.
Aurora swallowed a sob. The remaining light rushed toward them, and she gasped as the rest of Caspian’s magic entered her bloodstream.
It was a powerful surge that echoed through her body, and somewhere deep inside her, she recognized it as his.
It felt like him—cold and warm, stoic and deliberate, impatient and reverent.
Challenging. Gentle. She accepted it all, hoping she would never forget, not for a single moment, that the magic she possessed had once belonged to the man she loved, had once flowed through his veins and moved through his heart.
Aurora took a deep breath, preparing herself for what was to come.
She felt the exact moment Caspian let go of her hand, and her arm flailed, trying to find him once more.
She frantically grasped for him, but he took a step back, just out of reach.
“Please,” she whispered, but there was nothing he could do; he was no longer able to pull the light with her.
It was Aurora’s job now, and she held it all on her own.
It was heavy and overwhelming, and she wanted to collapse beneath the weight of it, but the truth was that she was strong enough to carry it.
She forced herself to turn away from him, beginning the long walk to the lamppost. She could feel his eyes on her as she moved, each step harder than the last, until finally she reached the bronze post. She stepped up onto the platform, turning back to look at him, and he watched her with clear eyes.
Then he clutched his chest with his hand.
No.
With all of her strength, Aurora lifted the golden rays of the sun and heaved them onto the hook in the lantern. It was the final step in the ritual, and Aurora slammed the glass door shut and jumped back to the ground.
Caspian.
He was on his knees, and Aurora ran to him, dropping into the snow beside him. He fell to the side, his head landing in her lap, and Aurora cradled him gently.
“I’m here,” she said, her voice shaking. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Whisper my name in the endless after…” His voice was weak, and his breaths were ragged, as if the words had taken whatever life remained in him.
“I will,” she promised, bending close so he could hear her. “I will,” she said again, her lips against his ear, repeating it over and over.
He met her eyes, touched her lips. “Find me even in death.”
The sunlight got brighter then, warmth colliding with the falling snow. Everything was so quiet; not even the animals in the forest or the deer at the sleigh stirred. It was as if the entire mountain held its breath.
“Caspian,” she gasped, holding him close. Then the light in his eyes dimmed and his chest no longer rose, and all at once he was gone.
This new dawn brings with it new life.
You and you alone call out to me.
I am the Sun.
You are the Starmaker.
Today your reign begins.
Aurora bent over Caspian, his head still in her lap, and wept.