Chapter 32 Darkness
Darkness
The day following the Starmaker’s death was marked by darkness.
Aurora did not pull the Sun, and Reverie remained under a black cloudless night, the stars and the moon casting the only light on the mountain.
It was customary to mark the Starmaker’s passing in this way, and when the villagers realized what it meant, they closed their shops and emptied out of the market until even the square was blanketed in the thick of night.
The only stirring came from the bells, ringing out from the center of the square in mourning.
Aurora could hear them all the way from her room in the palace, and she kept her balcony doors open to let in the sound.
Aurora had stayed with Caspian until the very last second, until the castle staff had arrived on the glacier, pulling him from her and laying him to rest in his marble casket.
She had cried over him as she’d set the peach roses she had gathered on his chest, saving just one to place on the glacier where he had taken his last breath.
I will find you even in death, she had promised, and then the staff closed the casket and took it back to the castle, where it would lie in the small sanctuary beyond the gardens, awaiting burial.
Aurora closed her eyes against the memories. A single day of mourning did not feel like enough to mark Caspian’s life, his unwavering protection of Reverie. She wondered how long would feel adequate, and she realized there was no amount of time that would properly convey her grief over losing him.
Not a day.
Not a month.
Not a year or one hundred years more.
Aurora sat on her bed with her knees pulled to her chest, her quilt draped over her legs, listening to the sound of the bells.
Constance sat at the foot of the bed, watching her with her enormous blue eyes, and Aurora swore she saw grief in them.
A tray of food sat untouched on the desk, and the gold handkerchief was always at the ready, standing upright on the side table.
Ina had dropped off a sampling of the many letters that had arrived that day.
Perhaps Aurora would read them eventually, when the intense grip of pain subsided and she felt like she could breathe again.
Perhaps.
When her room began to feel too small, Aurora dressed in her warmest wool and went outside to be with the animals.
They too seemed to understand that Caspian was gone, and they whined as she made her way from the deer to the rabbits to the squirrels.
Before she reached the wolves, one of them howled, and the rest of them joined in.
The sound mixed with that of the bells, the most sorrowful thing Aurora had ever heard, and it echoed through the trees and off the mountain peaks, covering all of Reverie in its anguish.
She wandered the grounds for a long time.
The gold handkerchief followed close behind her, and when she could no longer stand it, she snatched it from the air and shoved it deep into her pocket.
She touched the flowers and visited the greenhouse, and when she went to check on the rosebush she had planted with Caspian, she saw that it was in full bloom, sparkling white petals that were somehow vibrant even in the dark.
There is so much magic here.
Aurora roamed the gardens until her head ached from the sweet scent of flowers, then trudged through the snow to the small sanctuary.
First she sat and leaned her back against the entrance, and then she stood and walked in tireless circles around the structure.
She kept her hand on the stone, hoping Caspian could feel her presence.
It was cold and dark in the small space, and she didn’t want him to be alone.
Aurora was about to go back to the palace when she caught sight of Caspian’s stag far off in the distance, the one she had tried to kill that first day in the woods.
The memory felt like a knife, and before she knew what she was doing, she ran toward him, and then the stag was running, too.
Aurora’s heart was pumping, the cold air blowing her hair back and stinging her lungs, but it felt so good to run.
She was getting closer to the stag, and she picked up her skirts, her legs burning with the effort, moving as fast as she could until there was no more distance between them.
Then she abruptly stopped, and so did the stag.
The stag bowed his head, shoved his snout into Aurora’s chest, then dropped to his knees and curled up on the snow.
Aurora did the same, and the stag shifted toward her so that she was resting on his side.
She lay there for a long while, looking up at the stars, feeling her life stretch out before her.
So much time. So many years. So much grief.
She understood why Caspian had guarded himself, why he’d had walls so high they were nearly impossible to climb.
Why he wouldn’t even name his animals for fear of intimacy.
She remembered then that she had decided to name the deer but had yet to do it.
Now was as good a time as any, and it felt fitting to name the stag first.
She turned her head to see his face, feeling the rise and fall of his chest with each breath he took.
She was as struck by him then as she’d been the first time she’d seen him, so tall and serene and beautiful.
He did not seem to mind the darkness. He lifted his head to look at her, and Aurora saw the stars reflected in his eyes, even a falling one that drifted from one eye to the other.
He put his head back down, and she ran her hand over his fur.
She decided to call him Fate.