Disclaimer:
All characters, with the exception of Kyren, belong to Tamora Pierce and Random House Publishing. The poem in the beginning belongs to Billi Rouge. No profit is being made of any of this.THE FIRST SNOWFALL
By Miss de Winter
First love, is like the first snowfall, in December.
Awaited so long, it twirls and laughs, plays and cherishes
It lightens, frees, and we come running out
In brand new gloves, with eager faces,
And we embrace the snow.
But first love,
First love is like the first snowfall, in December
And like first snow,
It melts.
And leaves us nothings but cold, black earth.
It was over.
He knew it just by looking at her—by the look of pure terror on her face. The look that mingled with guilt, uncertainty, the desire to run as far and as fast and as long as she could, away from him. But she wasn't going to run, she was going to confront him. And that probably made it even worse, because it meant that somewhere in her heart, she still loved him. But not the way he wanted her to. Not the way he needed her to. That was why it hurt so much. "I need to talk to you." She said in a quivering voice that was barely more than a whisper. He walked over to a chair and sat down, gesturing faintly for her to do the same. His movements felt slow and slugged, and he knew if he spoke his worlds would be slurred, too. But that was all on the outside. On the inside, his thoughts were racing, his blood pounding, and his heart was banging against his ribs. It was late, very much so. The experiment he had been working on was leading no where, so he was sitting up in the main room waiting for her to return. He was beginning to get worried. And she had come, a little after the midnight bell had rung, standing in the middle of the room like a stranger. "Numair…" She was wringing her hands, sitting with her back straight as a board, staring into the carpet. He jammed his eyes into her and stared. He knew she could feel his gaze, and knew that she wanted to shrink away from it, but that was beyond his control. Her hair was spilling around her face, and veiling it so that it could only be seen when looking at her directly. At that moment, she looked more beautiful to him than ever before. And he knew then, too, that she would never look as beautiful to him as she did then. People say that you appreciate a something truly only after you lose it. No, it was not so. You appreciate something the most when you are losing it. "Numair, I…" Her voice faltered again. This was, if it was possible, harder for her than it was him. Numair watched her, thinking that. But it helped neither of them much. He wondered why he didn't stop this right now. He could reach out, put a hand over hers, stilling it, smile sadly and tell her it was alright, that he understood. And she would break out into tears, and sob, say something incomprehensible, and… and she would leave, and he'd be left alone. He's be left alone, but this—this torture, this waiting for her to actually say the words, would be over. But that would be heroic, and despite everything, he was no hero. He remained silent. His Daine looked up, right into his eyes, and immediately looked back to the floor, cringing. She gave a dry sod, her breath ragged. "Numair, I can't do this anymore!" Gods, that hurt. He clenched his fingers into a fist, digging his nails into flesh, still unable to rip his eyes away from her beautiful—beautiful—face. She was talking now, rapidly. Explaining, assuring. A couple of times she would lift a hand to brush her hair behind her ears, but the unruly curls would come tumbling back down immediately. She kept her eyes fixed on the ground. He didn't seem to be able to hear her words, just her voice. His head was feeling oddly light, and he was trying to ignore the pounding in his chest. Gods, he knew it was a mistake. He knew it from the very beginning, from the moment he realized that she was more to him then what he had thought her to be. It was torture back then, to watch her. As she made her way between her uncountable admirers, oblivious to them, or perhaps a bit annoyed, as she had been with the clerk. As she sometimes spoke to him of those kind of things. He had always prided his self-control, and he had blessed it then. But all self-control had snapped when he had thought he lost her. Yet even back then—back in the Divine Realms, when he had kissed her for the first time—even then he knew it was a mistake, one of the greatest mistakes he could made. No matter if it was followed by three of the best years of his life. It had been a mistake. And he was now paying dearly for it. His Daine had woken up. She was silent now, finished with her fiery speech, exhausted. Perhaps feeling worse than before—more guilty, more strained, feeling more like a stranger in this place that was her home too. But maybe better—relieved, lighter, less frightened. She was looking at the floor, waiting for him to speak, wanting him to say something that would make the whole thing better. He said something that could only make it worse: "Who is it?" he asked. Daine, startled, looked up, her eyes wide. "What?" she whispered. "Can you tell me who he is? His name?" "Oh." She breathed. Her eyes dropped back to the ground, and she gently rocked back and forth, hugging her elbows and biting her lip. "You—you know him." Numair stared into space silently for a moment, thinking. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, the bright, grinning face of his young apprentice appeared before his eyes. His light gray eyes, tight black curls, and freckled cheeks. And he had a flash of memory—Daine coming into his workroom, giving the curly apprentice a quick glance, before walking over and wrapping her arms around Numair's neck and giving him a light kiss. "Kyren?" He asked softly drawing focus on her face. Daine gave out a shuddering breath. A few tears that had been crawling down her cheeks dropped onto her knees, causing little dark spots to spread. He felt as thought his insides were being torn at by some wild beast with claws. He nodded absently, more times that was necessary. "He's a good man." He said softly. Suddenly, it became to much for Numair. He had to get away from her. He didn't know what would happen if he didn't, but he was sure he wouldn't survive to find interest in the consequences. He quickly rose. Reaching out on arm, he abruptly stopped it and dropped it to his side. He wanted to brush to cheek, but no. That would be an intimate gesture, a gesture of affection. He wasn't allowed now to show her that king of intimate affection anymore. Giving out a sharp breath, her turned and tightly shut his eyes. "Good bye, Daine." He managed to say calmly and quietly before striding quickly to the door of his workroom and stepping inside. Daine remained for a couple minuets sitting as she was, being tormented by the feelings of pure guilt that bubbled in her blood. She knew the she couldn't know how she had just hurt him. But it was time. She could no longer hide it from him. And Kyren had wanted her to tell him, too. Kyren loved Numair. He was like him in so many ways. And he told her it was unbearable for him to face his teacher, and then go and kiss they teacher's lover. So it was over. Slowly, sluggishly, she rose and, shuffling her feet, went into the bedroom. The shades were pulled tightly closed and it was very dark. She lit a candle and quietly made her way to the dresser. Pulling out the top drawer, she dumped the contents on the large, four poster bed and began folding them absently, shoving them into her bag. She would come back later—in a week, maybe—to get the rest of her things. She, just then, needed to gather her vital belonging and get out. But something made her stop. A little black box, sitting on the dresser. It had been put here absently, when the owner was examining it, and was interrupted, and had no time to return it to it's rightful place. Frowning slightly, curiosity breaking the surface of her gloomy thoughts, Daine set down a shirt she was holding and reached for the box. The was made of stone, and was cool in her hands. With a soft click she opened it. Nearly dropped it. Tears sprung to her eyes, clogged her throat, and burned her lungs. She gasped for breath, breath wouldn't come. Her knees suddenly felt weak, her legs could not support her. She staggered, and sank to the floor, leaning against the dresses so that a handle was hurting her back, and wailed, crying softly. What was in the little black box that caused out Daine such great distress? The reader has probably already guessed. Yes, a little ring, or pure white gold, with a blind stone, the value of which could not be overcome, nestled at the top. And on the inside, in perfect, slightly slanted script, engraved were the words: My Magelet … Author's Note: I've had this idea for awhile. It had been born and blossomed during the more important minuets of Latin class, which is probably why my grade is currently a C. I'm planing to make it a many-part fic (don't despair), the ending of which wanders lonely about my brain and won't settle, although it is there. I'd like to say that I LOVE D/N parings, and there will be fics about them by yours truly (in later years) that aren't so depressing. Parts of this were inspired, although in no direct way influencing the plot, by two songs (Dido's Hunter, and Fields of Gold by Sting, both beautiful songs, so if you haven't heard, go borrow a CD from a buddy, I'm sure s/he has one of them) and by Billi Rouge's poem First Love. And one last thing I'd like to add. Due to intense amounts of schoolwork, expect the next part next weekend, at the earliest. Of course I might spin out and surprise everyone, but I'm making no promises.