A Starlight Ribbon

(takes place after the end of Stormcaught, but before the epilogue)

Esk has not changed, not in all the years since he laid the first foundation stones. Yes, the shape of it is different. The sound and the taste of it are new. But the trees grow the same, and the rain falls the same, and he still feels the dark river running deep under the golden stone, and that means Esk still is as it ever was.

A gate. A threshold. A doorway into another world, and one he had once guarded fiercely in another life.

In this life, though, he merely lets the river run on. In this life, he picks the sun-ripe berries and splits wood for winter. He observes the festivals quietly, and when he is alone, he greets the stars quietly in a language only he and they still know.

But he is rarely alone. In this life, he is loved.

In his other life, he had been worshipped, adored, revered. But he has never so wholly belonged to one heart before, and now he has known it, he will not ever give it up.

Ky has spent a life as a god, and another lifetime trapped in the reeds of a vast and ceaseless river, but it is this life that he wishes will never end. It is what he asks of the stars, when they speak in the soft hours before dawn. 

Let me keep this, he says. Let me stay. 

Ky is a deathless creature. Ethram is a mortal man. 

Ky had ruled the paths of the dead, once. He had gently ushered souls downriver. He has never feared death. He has never despised it as he does now, when the moonlight is clear and Ethram’s weight in his arms is warm and precious. And so he will not let it take what is precious to him away. He will keep Ethram, always.

This evening, the Leightons’ plum trees are garlanded with silk ribbons and a long table is slowly filling with food. Ada has outdone herself, but so has their neighbour, Mara. So have the Parls, and Etta and Marc from the markets. 

“Ky. You’ve been doing too much,” Ada says, bringing out the last dishes. Mara and Etta are on her heels, carrying blankets and cushions for the benches. “Go, go. Everyone is arriving now, and without you, Ethram will never remember to turn up. Then where will we be?”

“I’ll fetch him now,” Ky says, because Ada is right. The garden is already filling up, and the promising strains of a violin echo from near the house. There will be dancing tonight, no matter how much Ethram will mutter about it. 

 He ducks away before anyone can greet him or waylay him with congratulations, and he slips down a small path beside the house and out into the road. The entire village is stirring, lighting lanterns and stringing flags from their gates. He passes the young Tamblin children on the road, and they laugh and throw petals at him. Their baskets are full—they must have spent all afternoon picking flowers from their mother’s garden.

“Save some for the dancing,” he calls after them. Their laughter drifts back down the road as they run towards the Leightons’ garden.

In contrast, his own cottage is dark and quiet. He is not so surprised, because they had been up before dawn, and Ethram had declared earlier that he intended to rest before the evening’s festivities. Though, Ky greatly doubts he is actually sleeping. To Ethram, resting often means some quiet time with a book.

Ky brushes a hand against one of the young crabapple trees by the door, sending it a small blessing before he goes inside. He imagines it sends a blessing in return and for a brief, silver moment, he is back in the sacred orchards of an older life, where trees shivered into people and his revellers sang and bestowed kisses.

Fancies, now. Stories. Poems for scholars like Ethram to pore over and wonder at, but never truly believe. 

And Ethram, like a true scholar, is indeed poring over something when Ky leans in the parlour doorway. He does not stir, because he has not noticed Ky yet. It is one of Ky’s favourite things, the way he can watch and devour every blink and breath of Ethram until Ethram finally, finally, notices him.

But tonight, they have somewhere to be. “Put your book away, love,” he says. “We must be going.”

Ethram—his beloved, his heart—looks faintly irritated to be interrupted. But his face clears in another moment, and he places a page-marker carefully between the pages of his book. “Have many people turned up?”

Ky thinks of Etta and Marc and their carefully packed crate of chestnuts and figs. Of the Leightons and the fine box of beautiful teaware. Of Ethram’s friends from the university—Larsen, Taylor and Yates—and the small but heavy stack of books that will surely be the highlight of Ethram’s night. The Parls, and Mara, and all the neighbours and friends that have gathered to celebrate. Of the way Ada’s garden is spilling over already, bright with music and old-fashioned, candle-lit lanterns. The way everyone is waiting for them.

“Never fear, my heart. There’s hardly anyone at all.”

Ethram gives him that look he loves so much, the one that tells him that he is being a torment, and a trial, and a wretch. “As long as you promise to take me away before the midnight bells.”

“That is an easy promise to make.” He draws Ethram in, tipping his chin up for a kiss. Ethram yields like summer beneath his lips, warm and sweet and full of promises. “Husband.”

The way Ethram’s ears darken is promising, too. He does not blush easily, this man, but Ky has learnt all the ways that his love weakens for him. He will learn a hundred more before he is done with him, too. More than a hundred, even, for he will never be done with him.

“Husband,” Ethram echoes, a faint pull of amusement in his words.

But no amusement can quell the way that word tugs at Ky’s soul with more fervour than the dark river ever had. It makes him shiver, calling up all the fathoms of aether in him. He breathes, letting it sink back down. It would not do to show up at his own wedding party with shining eyes and pointed claws. 

Even if Ethram does not mind it. Perhaps he’ll let it surface later, just to see the way his husband’s eyes go midnight-dark and wanting. 

“It is strange to be married and not tie the ribbons,” Ethram says, winding his hands through Ky’s loose hair. He tugs thoughtfully.

Ky smiles. It had been an unconventional wedding by modern Esk standards. They had not gone to the little stream in Esk where the wedding ribbons are usually tied. Ky had seen no point. He had no need of the ribbons, or the cold and barely-sufficient symbol of the dark river. He is of the dark river. He can tie their souls together as easily as anyone can tie a ribbon of silk.

He had done so that morning, in the hush before dawn, standing in the berry patch with dew on his hair and mist dampening Ethram’s mouth. He’d woven them together with aether and starlight, and no wedding ribbon will ever rival the strength with which he has bound them.

Ethram is his, now. And he is Ethram’s. Unceasingly. Unbreakably. Souls bound, and hearts bound, and lives and fates intertwined, until the dark river runs dry and all things return to dreams and silence. And even then, Ky does not intend for them to part.

But in this mortal life, such a thing can be more simply stated. 

Husband. 

“I will fetch you a ribbon, if a ribbon is what you desire,” Ky says, looping his fingers around Ethram’s wrist in a mimicry of a wedding ribbon’s hold. “I would fetch you a thousand of them.”

“Perhaps one day,” Ethram says, smiling. “For now, perhaps you might fetch me my coat.”