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sunshine and moonlight, heaven and earth
Where there is day, there is night. Where there is sun, there are the moon and stars. Where there is light, darkness is not too far off. She knows this, and he knows this. However, the rest of their village will never learn.
After all, its people knew she had reached for the sun, though it never heard her pleas.
And the sun? He yearned for both the day and the night, wanting to augment his rays of hope, balance out his blinding arcs. As for the morning? She chased after the night, wanting a balance for her routine.
And so it is not too surprising, not really, that the darkness sought out the light, that the night yearned for the glow of the moon. He wanted to accentuate his night, see his own sun reflected in the moon, witness his own night mirrored in their union.
Yet.
She wished for the sun, a life to raise her hopes. She wanted the light to help her overcome her darkness, her insecurities and weaknesses and feminine naïveté.
But.
The darkness would do, just as well. The night allowed her her innocence, relished in her weaknesses that it could protect, found her insecurities obscured in light of the situation she was placed.
To the darkness, the moon's beauty encompassed her flaws. Her sadness became kindness, and her kindness became strength. She was the salvation the night so desperately needed, the silence he craved over the loss of his own night and the death of his own sun.
But the sun is not dead.
The night could not see, blinded by darkness and his vengeance and shadows.
The sun lives on.
She accepts the night and his shards like broken glass, mind cracked and heart frozen and soul torn to shreds, and he lets her in. And, slowly, but surely, she becomes precious, a gem left behind in the pile of empty jewels that are his story. Slowly, but surely, she is let in.
She vows her loyalty.
The cracks in his mind will be mended. The ice in his heart will be melted. The ruination of his soul will be sewn back together. She knows, soon, that the shackles that bind him will broken, too, torn apart by her own hands.
When that day will come, however, she knows not.
She is the moon, and she sees the past. Only the morning can seek out the future, and that is not what the night wants. He wants silence and understanding, not exuberance, nor sympathy, nor freedom.
She knows this, too.
It shouldn't seem strange to them, she decides. She but wishes to heal as well as the morning, yet she does not seek to heal the bones and the bodies of their people. No, her skills lie in restoring the mind.
The night wants her, and the moon is more than happy to oblige.
There may be love there, but there isn't, the villagers decide.
There was a love for the sun, she recalls, but there was merely admiration, and nothing more. The night and his moon know better than their village.
Where there is nothing to bring them together but for their silence, there still exists love in its purest form.
Untainted by lust nor envy, the night and his moon become one.
Where there once was, she knows there is nothing. Where there is nothing, however, he knows there exists everything.