Celestial: Chapter 1

Summary: DenNor AU. Every 100 years the Spirits of Sun and Moon send pieces of themselves down to earth to live among the humans. Their pieces are destined to search for each other and reunite to protect humankind from repeating the mistakes of their ancient past. Sindre, blessed by the Spirit of the Moon, has to choose between the needs of his family, his people, and his kingdom or the desires of his heart cursed upon him by seemingly unpresent gods and the destiny he never asked for.

AN: This is based on Inverted-Typo's Celestial AU idea over on Tumblr. Dear Inverted-Typo, I kinda took your idea and ran away with it to distant lands… whoops. Here's my twist on your twist! Special thanks to Emily and Heather, the most beautiful betas in the world!

Note: Nor is Sindre, Den is Magnus. Sun spirit is Male, Moon is female here. All of Den's siblings are OCs - although his sister, Marta, could be seen as Nyo!Den, if you so wish.

Once upon a time…

There is a story that is told in these lands of the Moon coming down from the skies and living among the humans as one of their own. She was kept tied to the earth against her will, a prisoner stolen away by the evil Spirit of Darkness unleashed by careless humans, hidden from her love, Sun. For ten years Moon suffered as a human without the magic that connected her to her home in the heavens while Sun searched for her, scorching the lands as he wept for the loss of his love.

Eventually, the two were reunited and together they combined their powers to seal the evil away once more. Sun blessed the settlement where Moon had lived, thankful to the humans that kept her safe when he could not. The lands flourished under the love of Sun and Moon and grew to be great and their influence multiplied, spanning several kingdoms.

Humans, however, are fleeting creatures and their memories are short. In order to prevent history from repeating itself, Sun and Moon agreed to send pieces of themselves to live among the humans, to guide and rule the kingdoms, born with knowledge of their celestial counterparts and memory enough to keep the earth safe from the Spirit of Darkness…

Sindre was born in the dead of the night during a full moon on the first day of winter. Snow began to fall as his birth was announced to his father. That night, it is said, the Spirit of the Moon herself came down from the heavens to kiss his brow. His skin was fair, his hair like moonbeams, his eyes filled with violet starlight. He was gentle and quiet, yet also strong and unshakable.

His parents, the rulers of the great kingdom where it is said Moon lived during the earliest memories of humans, were overjoyed with the blessing. They wept tears of happiness that their gods chose to continue to bestow divine gifts on their family and their lands.

The townspeople inside the kingdom immediately began to whisper about the search for the Moon's partner, Sun, for when one spirit appears among the humans, the other is sure to follow. And so, a family was found in a neighbouring kingdom that claimed one of their children was the incarnation of the Sun Spirit…

On Sindre's 18th year, after many months of correspondence and many more months of planning, the family was coming to meet him and, hopefully, the two would be wed as per tradition; to lead the lands in a way that was pleasing to their gods.

The family arrived to court, all sun-dark skin, bright eyes, and nervous smiles. The parents stood proudly with their children, dressed in the finest garb the fashions of the time described. It was like summer had descended into receiving halls as they were introduced to the onlooking courtiers. A hush fell upon the crowds hugging the edges of the room, creating a bubble around the family as they approached the dais that held three grand thrones. Sindre sat upon the forwardmost throne, relaxed and nonchalant, a look upon his face carefully arranged into polite disinterest. He warmed his expression to a small smile as he looked on from his throne, comfortably lounging. On his right sat his father, the king, straight and proud; at his left sat his mother, regal and warm, with her youngest son, Emil, perched on her lap. They were all decorated in blue silks and silver. A silver circlet on Sindre's brow was delicate and shining, pearls inlaid in the twirling patterns at his temples. He wore a silvery cape about his shoulders and it cascaded down one arm and his lap, pooling at the ground by his feet.

His father was unusually passive as he let Sindre take over the responsibility of leading the court proceedings, simply observing as his heir addressed the court and the guests. Anxiety bloomed in Sindre's gut. He much preferred the background work when it came to ruling. He was not a natural public speaker and felt uneasy when all eyes turned to him expectantly. He had not received from his father the ease with which he spoke to people, crowds and one-on-one, with anyone from courtiers to peasants. His father was a firm ruler, but had an even, velvety voice that was easy to trust. The people loved their king, he was fair and just, and Sindre often wondered if he would be able to fill his shoes when he finally inherited the throne. These worries stacked up alongside his concerns of the destiny he was delivered the night he was born. At least, he thought as he gazed at the family in front of him, he was not alone in that regard. There was one other person in the world that understood the pressure of being chosen by the gods to protect mankind from evil and all of the symptoms that came along with that.

Sindre did not rise to his feet, but remained sitting as he introduced himself and his own small family. Years of instruction on proper etiquette allowed him the ability to keep his tone smooth and gentle. He had always known the Sun Spirit existed in the world somewhere and he would eventually meet them. Would he recognize them for what they were right away? Life was so much simpler when destiny was merely a subject to be discussed, and not a real life event. A pit formed in his stomach when he first heard they found his Sun and it only grew as this day drew nearer. What if he didn't like them? No one ever talked about what would happen if the Sun and Moon met and had no interest in each other...

"Presenting," called a herald from somewhere deeper in the room, "the Andersen Family!" The Andersens collectively bowed and there was decorous applause from the court. Sindre tiled his head in greeting as the head of the house was introduced, followed by his wife. Their eldest daughter was gently pushed forward a step and she smiled tentatively up at Sindre.

"Presenting Miss Marta Andersen, blessed by the Spirit of the Sun." Her face was painted in gold dust, her warm, honey-colored eyes were lined in kohl and she was decorated with gold jewelry and glittering diamonds. Her silk dress looked like sunshine spun into thread, the bodice sparkling with beads and the skirts curled about her legs as she took a step forward, the fabric hissing quietly as she curtsied low, watching Sindre through her eyelashes. She was graceful as she rose back to her full height, reaching her hand out to Sindre in greeting. He rose to his feet and took a half-step forward, dropping one foot off the dais and took her hand, brushing his thumb along the back of it as he smiled at her.

"I welcome you and your family to our kingdom," he said. He made sure his eyes stayed on her face for a moment longer than necessary, before looking past her at the remaining three members of her family. On her mother's hip was a little girl, too young to stand politely on her own, and next to her, with his hands balled into her skirts, was a boy about the age of seven. Sindre smiled warmly at him before turning his attention to a young man, the eldest son. "And the rest of your family?" he asked glancing back towards Marta, releasing her hand.

"This troublemaker is my younger brother, Marcus," Marta gestured towards the boy, who was busy rubbing off the gold paint adorning his cheeks onto the folds of fabric clutched in his hands, his mother unaware. Sindre thought of his own younger brother, who hated being dressed up and paraded around just as much as Marcus seemed to. "And this is Magga," the small girl shied into her mother's neck before turning to peek at him, smiling delightedly and waving. Sindre chuckled. Her fat cheeks were also brushed with gold.

"And?" He raised an eyebrow looking again to the young man, who avoided Sindre's eye, looking beyond him at the decor and other people in the room.

In comparison to his siblings he was dressed quite plainly, like he was trying not to stand out. He had the same sun-kissed blonde hair, but his skin was much more fair and his eyes were a shocking shade of sky blue. Freckles like constellations were splashed across his face. He was not painted like his sister or younger siblings, save for the rosy flush that bloomed in his cheeks when Sindre extended his hand with the expectation of a proper greeting.

"This is Magnus, Your Grace," Marta said from behind Sindre, a wide smile evident in her voice, "my twin brother."

Those blue eyes flicked towards his parents and hesitated, stepping forward only when his father gave a slight nod and tight-lipped smile. Sindre waited patiently for him to come forward and take his hand; dropping to a knee, he brushed his lips for the briefest of moments over Sindre's knuckles. He kept his eyes downcast.

"Pleasure," Sindre purred. Magnus finally looked up to meet his gaze and was clearly unable to rein in the grin that flashed across his face. Magnus cleared his throat as he stood and schooled his expression to something more appropriate for court. Sindre was momentarily overwhelmed with a sense of warmth. He could feel his voice dying in his throat and he blinked, looking away from Magnus and gathering his composure before quickly saying, "thank you for coming so far to meet me," He turned on his heel and fully ascended the dais once more. He sat himself down on his throne, and with his elbow on the arm of his seat, touched his fingertips to his chin as he regarded his guests.

"This evening when the musicians first take up their instruments, Marta, I hope you will permit me to lead you in a turn about the dance floor, for I much desire to do so," he said smoothly, internally reluctant to follow through; he didn't care for such ostentatious events where the focus was solely on him. His mother, however, had strongly suggested that it was his responsibility to open the ball later that evening. Marta blushed delicately beneath her golden paint and ducked her head.

"Your Grace," she curtsied again, "I would very much desire that as well." The was a general sign of approval among the court, and the family was whisked away in order for regular business to carry on as usual. Courtiers took their turns approaching, bending the knee and expressing their barely contained joy that Sindre had, at last, found his Sun.

.

The grand ball, to celebrate the Sun and Moon being reunited at last, began shortly after a light dinner Sindre had served to him alone in his quarters.

Eight fully-lit crystal chandeliers, going two-by-two down the length of the room, cast small, flickering rainbows throughout the hall. Along one long length of the room were four sets of oak double doors, thrown open to the foyer beyond, where one could find swirling staircases to the balconies overlooking the grand ballroom. Courtiers enjoyed refreshments there with the proper vantage to observe, whispering behind unfurled fans about the other attendees below mingling and twirling around the floor like bumblebees in a garden. The opposite wall curved outward and was home to floor-to-ceiling windows. Heavy velvet drapes of deep blue were tied back with silver cords and would have revealed the beauty of the garden beyond, had the winter sun not set hours earlier. Doors on each end of the room were open to the outside to allow fresh air to circulate and to give guests access to the garden where they could walk along the paths lit by candles in decorative glass baubles. Liveried staff circulated amongst the guests providing carefully arranged hors d'oeuvres and flutes of champagne from ornate silver platters balanced on gloved hands.

Everything was beautiful. Sindre scowled. The room was too hot, his clothing felt itchy, and his feet were pinched. His dusky blue silk brocade doublet was cut snugly against his tall frame, accentuated the most by the air of authority he wore upon his shoulders, rather than many elaborate trimmings. Silver inserts gleamed in his sleeves, and polished silver buttons contrasted with his inky black breeches and boots. He longed to remain in the private balcony reserved only for his family; however, his mother had pushed him towards the stairs, insisting he find his Sun and dance with her as soon as possible.

"I much prefer to admire the women and their ridiculous dresses from afar, mother," he had insisted. Her disapproving frown only deeped and she fiddled with his collar in such a way that suggested she would rather be choking him with her freshly manicured hands.

"The ball cannot properly begin without its host leading his guest of honor in a dance."

"I am hardly the host," Sindre whined, jerking away from her fiddling and pulling in vain at the silk about his throat. "I had no part in the planning of this evening other than signing my name along the bottom of the invitations. Besides, they can just as easily begin their dancing if I simply cue the music," he gestured over the railing across the way to a balcony that hosted a collection of musicians playing a tune to fill the air while everyone waited for their prince to make his entrance. They would begin playing songs for dancing when he and Marta would take the floor, or when otherwise instructed.

"Sindre," she said on a heavy exhale, "please don't quarrel with me on this. You have just been reunited with your Sun, this is a joyful evening. Do try to pull your lips into some semblance of a smile and at least pretend to enjoy yourself. For the sake of my nerves at the very least."

He relaxed and rolled his eyes, allowing her fiddling fingers to come at him once more. She worried over the hair that fell into his eyes, escaping the black velvet ribbon that held the rest together at his nape. At last, satisfied with his appearance, she cupped his cheek and, for a moment he thought that her eyes softened somehow, as she became simply his mother. It was not often she dropped her regal facade, and never during events of any importance. She was a kind woman with a gentle face, but she took her role as queen seriously and expected her children to follow the example she set. 'The People will always come before you,' she would tell Sindre when he was young, dropping a kiss to his forehead like her words were meant to comfort him, to protect him from the nightmares he would have once he slept. They were never comforting, but it put reason to the torment he suffered being the bearer of the Moon's spirit.

"My handsome son," she said, "I am so very proud of you." The moment was brief, and soon she was schooling her expression back to stern. Sindre allowed himself to be ushered towards the door. She waved him on as he slumped down the stairs, straightening and squaring his shoulders only when he descended into the line of sight of the public. He hesitated just over the threshold of privacy and being with the guests, a moment the herald took to proclaim his arrival. "Sindre Sigurdsson, Crowned Prince, Blessed by the Spirit of the Moon!" He felt a little like he was heading for the gallows.

The skirts that bobbed and the suits that gave short bows as he passed were dizzying. Too many people had their eyes trained on him as he strode purposefully into the reception hall. He had no thought as to where to place himself and await Marta's arrival to be announced. He clasped hands with men whose faces he recognized, and names he did not bother to recall, thanking them for attending his grand affair. To the women he flashed dazzling smiles, offering bows of greeting when they giggled politely behind their hands in delight. He worked his way around the room, pausing to pluck a glass of champagne from a passing tray and tip the entire contents down his throat. He knew more than a dozen women were watching him carefully, still secretly hoping they would catch his eye and he would ask them to open the dance, despite having been formally introduced to what the court expected to be his betrothed by the end of the evening.

He looked back longingly towards the archway leading towards his family's private balcony. He caught sight of his father's back as he disappeared up the stairs, finally having pulled himself away from whatever business that kept him occupied until now. Little Emil sat atop his shoulders, hands balled into their father's hair for support; the king's crown sliding sideways on his small, platinum blonde head.

He considered searching for another flute of champagne when he heard Marta's name called, "Miss Marta Andersen, Blessed by the Spirit of the Sun, and family!" He turned his attention towards the main entry. The oversized, ornate wooden doors, stained dark, stood open to the night as guests slowly filtered in for the evening, their presence proclaimed as they handed their invitations to the herald. Sindre watched over a sea of heads as Marta curtsied to the room, the rest of her family following in similar fashion, and she descended the steps into the crowd of people mingling. Sindre took a moment to gather his wits then made his way towards the doors to greet her. He deposited his empty glass on a passing tray.

"Your Majesty?" A voice, the words barely understandable around a juvenile lisp, asked from somewhere near his elbow. He blinked and looked down, a small hand was reaching out and hesitating just shy of grasping for his sleeve.

"Marcus?" He knelt down so he was eye level with the small boy, Marta's younger brother, "what can I do for you?" The small boy had been redressed for the evening's affairs; he wore a fine white silken suit, a golden sash tied across his chest and around his middle, and there was a miniature mock sword strapped to his hip. His blonde hair seemed to be untamable, as it stood on end, but clearly looked like someone had tried to comb it down. His tanned skin was brushed in golden dust, reapplied for the evening's festivities, and his wide, brown eyes were lined in kohl. He was grinning cheekily, one of his front teeth was missing. He must have ran down the stairs into the foyer, his small body passing unnoticed between the ball gowns adorning the women in the room.

"Your Ma-," he wrinkled his nose and changed direction, "you're a prince!" he shouted excitedly and Sindre found his mood lifting a little.

"I am."

"Marta was very excited," Marcus said sarcastically, "she talked an awful lot about you this afternoon. She mostly complained that doesn't know how to dance. That's okay, though, since we found someone to teach her before the ball tonight. She knows now. But, she was really worried before, since you asked so nicely and it made her blush lots."

"Marcus!" Marta's voice arrowed through the hubbub, as if to pin her brother to the marble floor.

Sindre smiled politely, carefully masking his amusement, "Of course…" He cleared his throat and turned at Marcus' wide eyed retreat to stand and greet Marta who was beelining for them both, her face flushed. He wondered after the cause, whether it be anger or embarrassment, or perhaps a mixture of both.

Marta curtsied low when she was close enough before he could decide her mood. She brushed at a red ribbon at her throat holding a pendant of the Sun Spirit and said, "please forgive my brother, Your Grace! I hope he is not bothering you," she added quickly. "I did not mean to interrupt, but he can be such an imp!"

"Not at all," Sindre offered her his arm, "we were having an… illuminating conversation. Shall we walk?" Despite her obvious discomfort, he found himself admiring the way she carried herself in the new garments tailored for her. A golden gown, reminiscent of sunshine, shone about her like a summer haze. Sparkles of gold thread and amber glass made whirling patterns like tiny suns across the fitted bodice, flowing into ruffled skirts that rustled as she walked. Sleeveless, her sun-darkened skin was dotted and lined in careful patterns of ochre red, the heavens in picture form, transforming her into a work of art. Swathes of butter-coloured hair curled round her head, with tumbling ringlets framing her reddened cheeks. Startling amber-honey eyes sparked with a fiery disposition that suggested she was angry, not embarrassed.

"Of course, Your Grace. As it pleases you," she replied smoothly, gathering her composure with the habitual response used in the circles of polite conversation. He too often used that tactic to buy time for his thoughts; however, he found himself somehow disappointed that she reined in her fire.

Sindre threw a wink over his shoulder at Marcus who laughed delightedly as he dashed away, getting lost between the skirts that swirled about the room like floating flowers. "I'm glad you found me," he said, relieved. He was no longer alone, and it showed when his shoulders seemed to loosen.

"That illuminating conversation… should I be worried?" Marta peeked up at Sindre and he teased her with a quirk of his lips, but said nothing on the matter. "Damn that brother of mine. Sometimes I swear I could…" she heaved an exasperated sigh. "I beg your pardon, Your Grace, I oftentimes find him vexing."

"Ah, the joys of younger siblings," Sindre inclined his head, trying to catch her eye, and the amusement sparkling there. Of course, there was tension between him and his brother, but on a whole Sindre found himself doting on his sibling more often than not. "Of course myself and Emil have had our share of disputes, but worry not. Your brother was merely trying to..," he gestured as if to pluck the words from the air.

Marta raised her brows, stifling a smile as he struggled to find a gracious reply, "Yes, well his teasing has made a grand impression, I'm sure."

"Yes, thank you." he could feel the embarrassed flush rise in his collar. "He did speak of your recent dancing lessons. He said you were doing quite well," he offered.

"Did he, now? Surely you are being far too polite. I know I promised to join you this evening, so I'd prefer not to disappoint the Prince," she admonished him. "Or his mother…" she muttered and she shot him a pointed look.

Sindre felt his ears turn red, then his cheeks. 'Oh dear.' His eyes widened as he startled, wondering if she really knew his mother was the driving force behind his actions this evening. His step faltered for a fraction of a second before he composed his quickly turning thought, "Erm… well, there is that…" he caught her look - she was laughing at him! - and he felt his lips pull into a smile in response.

Marta grinned, "Oh so there is a man under that facade, eh? Good. Yes, I don't desire to be the one to trod upon toes, literal or figurative, Your Grace. My father is adamant that this," she motioned her hand between the two of them, "work. If we are 'agreeable,' as he put it." She rolled her eyes a little at this.

Sindre wondered at the casual mockery of her father, but he also knew the expectations that faced them both, placed upon them by their families, the court, and their gods. "Yes, it seems we are… what is that turn of phrase? We are in the same boat." Marta chuckled and simply nodded her head in agreement.

Silence descended between them and Sindre cleared his throat. He glanced down at Marta, she was peeking up at him expectantly, a pleased flush rosy beneath her bronzed cheeks.

"My Lady Andersen," Sindre said, "would you do me the honors of opening this evening's event with me?"

"I suppose I had better," she teased him easily, "it would do no good for me to bail on you now with everyone watching." Sindre suppressed the urge to roll his eyes and delivered a pointed look and a tight-lipped smile instead. He guided them towards the rows of double doors leading to the grand ballroom. The musicians took note of their presence on the threshold of the dance floor and the music faded, the courtiers taking the cue to hush. The people in the room parted as Sindre led them to the centre of the floor. He tried to arrange his face in such a way that, he hoped, looked encouraging as he turned Marta to face him. In one hand he held hers and the other fell, gently circling around her waist, fingers barely brushing against the beadwork at the small of her back. "Ready or not, my Moon," she beamed at him and the music swelled.

His feet began to move as if on their own, the steps of dances were well worn in his memory from years of instruction. He did not have to try hard to dance well, he had inherited the same grace his mother possessed. He enjoyed dancing. It was something he could perform well and it never asked more from him than he was willing to give. Having an a partner whose company one enjoyed also helped immeasurably. Despite Sindre's nerves upon their introduction, he found that Marta was certainly more than pleasing to the eyes, but also engaging company.

Yet, Sindre was acutely aware of how stiff Marta felt, otherwise disguised behind her easy smile. Her shoulders were taut and her eyes hard as she focused on the steps he was leading her through. He decided against pursuing conversation and breaking her concentration, hoping she'd relax and trust his lead. When she wasn't glancing down at their feet, she was peering at the circle of courtiers watching them with pleased looks upon their faces. No one else had joined them in dancing, as is customary for the first dance, but she seemed to be visibly unnerved by the active audience. It wasn't until the first song ended and the second began, with guests pairing off and twirling onto the floor with them, that she finally looked him in the eye and smiled brightly, some of her stiffness leaving her. She even laughed as he spun her outwards into a turn, her skirts twisting tight around her, then unfurling like a flower in bloom.

He marveled at her elegance and the honest joy in her smile that reached the corners of her eyes. He found his own mouth turning upwards in response and he needed less and less to reach into his repertoire for charm. She was easy to be near, and this was not a feeling he experienced very often, or at all, especially when in view of the public. Was this the feeling he was told to expect when meeting his Sun? Was the flutter he felt in his chest as she beamed at the other passing couples what was meant when he was told he'd 'just know' when he was in the presence of the Sun Spirit? He couldn't be sure. He felt a kind of relaxation come over him as he realized that perhaps he would not need to have all of his walls up when conversing with her. Was that enough to signify she was special?

His eyes never left her face as a second dance transitioned into a third. He had no desire to dance with anyone else this evening. He enjoyed dancing, but Marta made it fun. He laughed as she relaxed more, more enthusiastic in her movements, sighing dramatically and putting on a show as he twirled her again. He forgot about the itch at his throat from the fabric of his coat and how his shoes pinched his toes; the other dancers, to him, also disappeared. For a moment it didn't matter that there was no earth-shattering signal that she was his Sun, no sign hovering over her head other than a herald calling her title when she entered a room. They were not Moon and Sun, reunited to protect the earth from the evils in the shadows; she was merely a beautiful woman delighted in the dance they shared, and he just a young man who didn't have to force the smile that was threatening to split his face. He could not help but consider, in the back of his mind, that his mother must be very pleased as she looked on from the royal gallery.

Sindre could have danced the entire evening with Marta; however, he took note of her father standing a little ways away, flushed cheeks and smiling warming at them. As the song ended, Sindre held her hand out to him and he bowed deeply.

"I fear I have been monopolizing your daughter's attention," Marta allowed her hand to be transferred from Sindre's to her father's. "Forgive me, good Sir."

"Ah, Your Grace, she looked so happy dancing with you, I dared not interrupt. But, if it pleases you, and you Marta," his eyes slid from Sindre to his daughter, "I wonder if you might permit a few songs for your dear old da'."

Sindre saw the 'yes, absolutely!' upon her lips, but she caught herself and turned to face him, curtsying low and Sindre inclined his head with a small smile, "by all means. It has been a pleasure, Marta, thank you," he offered a short bow towards her father, "Sir."

Sindre slipped away from the party and crowds of people, escaping any further expectations.

As he stepped through the open glass doors leading to the gardens he allowed himself a small sigh of relief. The air still had some of winter's bite but was not so cold that he needed a cloak to keep him warm as he wandered; spring was drawing near. He deviated from the candlelit path and strode down a set of flagstone steps, further into the darkened garden toward his favourite spot, the quietest, least pretty, and most isolated. The grass was patchy here, and the view of the garden's pond was blocked by a row of leaning hedges. Any flowers planted in that corner, tucked away and out of sight, never seemed to take root and thrive. Yet Sindre enjoyed it. He had a simple stone bench placed there for his use, somewhere he could go to hide from palace life and be alone with his thoughts. He'd never seen another person wander so far from the rest of the garden's splendor unless it was a servant at his bidding. He was startled to see someone already sitting upon his bench, face upturned towards the night sky, seemingly oblivious to his arrival.

Sindre gaped at the unknown intruder in his private space, only remembering to shut his mouth and scowl when his presence was suddenly realized. Sky blue eyes, widened in shock, were illuminated by a lantern hung on a low branch of the tall oak tree standing sentinel over the small bench. His light-coloured hair was standing on end; Sindre might have considered it to be messy if it did not have a look that suggested the style to be deliberate.

"Sind-Your Highness!" The man leapt to his feet and just as quickly lost his balance, tumbling backwards over his previous seat. "I didn't think I'd be found out here," he called from the ground. His grinning face popped up from behind the back of the bench, like the sun peeking over the crest of a stone mountain first thing in the morning, eyes shining.

"Evidently not," Sindre arched a brow at him, only now recognizing him as Magnus, Marta's twin brother.

"I can leave if you would prefer…?" Magnus stood and brushed dirt and grass from his breeches, his voice wavering with hesitation. He was wearing a burgundy velvet doublet trimmed in thick braided cords of gold thread, the long sleeves striped by creamy, silken inserts. Pearly buttons ran down his his centre in pairs surrounded by curling gold embroidery. There was a short cape drawn tight about his shoulders and clasped with a chain at his throat, offering some refuge against the chilled climate he was likely unused to.

"It's quite alright," Sindre heard himself saying, despite thinking only a moment before that he would much rather be alone. "It seems we were both searching for the same thing here this evening." Magnus chuckled at that and settled himself comfortably back on the bench, patting the space next to him. He didn't wait for any sort of response from Sindre and simply closed his eyes, turning his face back towards the moon hanging high in the sky.

Sindre thought perhaps he should be offended by the casual way that Magnus addressed him, but brushed it aside with a quiet sigh and joined him on the bench. He suddenly found himself exhausted from his dances with Marta, his mind whirling, and needed space to untangle his thoughts. Marta at least was different than other women, he could admit, but whether that difference was merely that he enjoyed her company or if it was the Moon drawing him towards his Sun he still could not tell for certain. For how often he was promised 'he'd just know', he felt entirely lied to. He didn't find himself 'just knowing' anything about Marta. Surely there was more to the Moon and Sun being reconnected than the simple pleasures one would discover in a good friend?

"I love the sun," Sindre jumped as Magnus suddenly spoke, his voice cutting through the silence between them like a knife to butter, "but, there's something to be said about the night. I love nights like this, where you look up and the moon looks so cozy, like it's wrapped up in blankets made of clouds."

"What an odd thing to say."

Magnus grunted in response, face still upturned, but his eyes were open now, wide and shining. He was smiling. Sindre watched him as he reached to pull his cape tighter around his shoulders. His hands dropped to his lap, clasped together tightly and his nose was red. Sindre wanted to ask him why he didn't return to the festivities, or at the very least retire to his rooms for the evening, if he were uncomfortable in the night air. Inside, at least, he'd be warmed by a fire and would have a window he could sit by to watch the moon. Sindre glanced upwards; the moon was not particularly lovely this evening, a waning crescent half-hidden by clouds rolling lazily across the velvet sky. Though, and he looked back to Magnus, he had to admit imagining the moon snug in blankets was a much more romantic notion to take away from a cold night.

"You have the spirit of the moon inside you," Magnus spoke again, turning to meet Sindre's gaze, "so what's your favourite thing about the sun?"

"The sunrise." He answered without hesitation. Sunrise was a new day and marked new beginnings. He enjoyed the hush of dawn and the smell of the earth when things were only just beginning to stir for the morning. It reminded him of that moment of stillness, like one holding their breath, before the orchestra began their overture.

Magnus seemed pleased with this response and smiled at him, his eyes crinkling. His smile was so honest that Sindre found himself unable to look away from it, like it was the definition of summer and it warmed him. He wasn't sure what sort of expression he was making, but Magnus continued to smile so he continued to stare at it. Magnus brought his lips together and hummed a thought, visibly pondering his words before he posed the question he was trying to form:

"Do you get the nightmares too?"

"Pardon me?" Sindre blinked.

"Nightmares. I - my sister has been plagued by terrible nightmares since she was a child. Is that a god spirit thing, or is she a special case?" Magnus' smile faded, a frown taking up residence on his face, and Sindre felt saddened.

"I get them, too."

"They are the worst on nights when it looks like there is no moon in the sky at all." Magnus reached upwards, fingers splayed, covering the moon with his hand like he was blocking it from Sindre, too.

"The new moon," he offered.

"Is that what it's called? Yeah, that. I hate those nights."

"You hate them?"

"Ah… Growing up, Marta would wake screaming from the nightmares. She was always unable to shake the memories of evil and the overwhelming feeling of loss on those nights. She was often inconsolable." Sindre couldn't look away from the lip caught between Magnus' teeth as he thought about this. His own nightmares were worse during the full moon, when the memories of Moon trapped on the earth were ripe. Made small and insignificant, Moon's heavenly voice was stolen from her by the Spirit of Darkness; Moon could see Sun every day, but no matter how loud she called, her voice could not reach him. Those nights he woke up pained, his chest tight, being so close and yet unable to reach for what Moon had longed for the most...

"You know a lot about her dreams." His voice sounded strangled in his ears.

"We are close." Magnus said simply.

The two sat in comfortable silence long enough for Sindre to grow chilled. Realizing by now he'd certainly be missed at his own party, he coaxed himself to stand, bid Magnus a pleasant rest of the evening and made his way back to the warmth indoors.

((to be continued))