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Chapter Text

“今天星轨最正，今天双月最圆。我们已向诸神献礼祈祷，愿季中猎获丰盛，愿季末新雪不寒，愿族人来年依旧平安。”

“活泼的青年们，可敬的长老们！佳节良宵天造神赐，正待我们尽欢！”

头发花白的族长①高举手杖，纹面的精灵们兴奋地离开席位，纷纷加入秋节欢庆的海洋。

音乐奏起，歌谣传唱。长发挽成优雅高髻与俏丽辫网，衣角沾染郁金与白芷的馥烈芳香。尖耳点缀着金星银环与莹润骨角，细碎的铃声伴着飞旋舞步幽幽振响。独眼的老乐师将琴弓横过琴杆，曲项琴②顶端那只大睁着贝母双眼的猫头鹰就在篝火光影中眨了眨眼；片刻后如水如缎的弦音忽然划破掌声，在一片鼓点中悠悠跳荡。

——我的爱人正在人群何处狂欢？

——我低头不语，她雀跃旋转。

 

 “来自远方的客人，我再次替族中的女儿传达请求。蕴含魔力的血脉在我族中流传长久，但这血脉很容易变得太过浓稠。您崇拜星辰，您走过长路，您有远见卓识与不凡气度；您在这个部族里的来去完全自由，而我们珍视来自族外的血脉馈赠。就算您答应了她，也无需关心她将如何度过以后。”

阿瓦拉克从兜帽下抬起脸，族长首席继承人③正站在他面前，绛紫的鸦纹在她的面孔上振翅翱翔。她那已爬上皱纹的双眼在魔法辉光下澄透如琥珀色的美酒，无论在艾恩艾尔世界还是艾恩希迪世界，他都没有见过哪一位精灵拥有这样的瞳色。而先前从他所坐树下飞快跑进夜色里的那位精灵女子则有美丽的杏眼，湛绿如同正被清晨阳光亲吻的密林。他小心地将手中的笔记本合上，以一片落叶分隔纸页与画面。老乐师醇润的歌喉仍在弦乐与旋舞间轻曼荡漾。

——她亲吻别人，也总会以唇吻我；

——盛满醉意的亲吻真假各一半。

“感谢您对我的评价，但我仍然不答应。请让她去找其他人吧。这是她刚刚在我这里放下的披肩，有劳您交还给她。”

年长的女法师了然一笑。

“我会转告那个孩子的，她是个通情达理的好孩子。”她将那条有着精美刺绣的毛毡披肩围在肩头，伸了伸腰，惬意地靠在他身后的树上，往人群的方向挤了挤眼。“我只是有些好奇，因为您的同伴——那个人类女孩，似乎比您更能融入我们的节日。”

阿瓦拉克向她扫去一眼，而后随着她的目光看向炽烈的秋节火堆与不知疲倦地欢舞着的年轻精灵们，那团瞩目的灰白在深色头发的猎人们之间颇为显眼。以他对她的了解，她可能还在喝酒。这里的精灵不过五朔节④，因为这意味着在人类的领地与兵马之间流浪迁徙的部族会不得不在仍然寒风凛冽却已开始缺乏物资的早春迎来虚弱的产妇与新生的婴孩。他们在秋季感恩大地丰产时也祝福人丁繁衍，全然出于务实，毫无繁花似锦的浪漫。

“她不是人类——她是精灵的女儿。”她的先祖是在遥远故乡里庆祝五朔节与萨温节⑤的精灵，是他的同族。

——我的爱人正向人群何处寻欢？

——我低头不语，她雀跃旋转。

“说得就像您自己不是精灵一样。”年长的精灵女人摇摇头，无声地笑了起来——“还是说，在遥远的故乡里，您从未在像这样的节日里亲吻过别人？”有那么一瞬间，阿瓦拉克忽然浑身不自在地意识到，这位早已成为母亲的女性早已习惯将属于这一身份的宽容口吻染上语调，哪怕他的年龄比她整整大一位数。

“我们在春天庆祝。”阿瓦拉克将兜帽往下一扯，挡住面孔。“而且，您不可能认为我从未有过恋人。”他的同族曾在五朔节头戴山楂与花楸织成的冠冕，在整个王国的尊贵宾客见证下面朝神圣篝火向他许下婚约誓言。他的同族曾在某个等待春天的山丘上枕着因死亡而永生的爱情产下一个不属于他而属于人类的孩子，而新雪在之后如约而至，彻底带走了那个姗姗来迟的春天。多年后他仍然会在五朔节亲吻，只是他已不再会为对方戴上花冠；多年后他在盛开的樱桃树下迎来命运之刻，来人正好生在五朔前夜，一如他所料，在苦苦等待多年之后——

节庆人群已经逐渐分成两部分：离他更近的一边仍在享受乐曲与舞蹈，而隔着熊熊篝火的、年轻精灵更多的一边忽然明显地攒动了片刻。他的目光习惯性地再次搜寻，却没有立即找见吉薇艾尔⑥——那一边人群的中心换成了一群浅色头发的女性，而其中接近白色的脑袋就有好几颗。与他不一样，吉薇艾尔早就换上了部族成员的着装，在这个距离又不便分辨面纹；但她至少还在人群里。

——她亲吻别人，也总会以唇吻我；

——谁故作情深在花潮月⑦的夜晚？

 

“您看起来的确不像是那种僵得像根干木头的长者。但何必离群索居？”

“毕竟我年事已高。”——而且这话中有意相较的不仅仅是那群年轻人。他用力捏了捏眉心，继续聚精会神搜寻人群，那条披肩忽然盖在自己肩头的重量却迟迟不至。

像是有读心术般，精灵女人仰天大笑，连坠着银花的发髻都偏了一半。

“您误会了——是我唐突了。”她叹了口气，“我的确只是好奇像您这样的长寿者会如何看待这个节日而已。传说我族曾经永生不老，可现在我们和人类一样，七十者稀，八十者寥寥，过百岁就是众神破天荒的赐福，不敢奢求。承诺永恒相守的神圣姻缘是祖先传下来的习俗；但同时我们也有一个说法：从没在篝火边跳舞亲吻过的人，才最容易妄谈天长地久。”

“你们认为在这种时候才会遇到命中注定的伴侣？”

比他年轻四个世纪的精灵女人转向他，飞翔在她面孔上的那只象征知识与秘密之神的神鸦也将一双浓紫色的眼睛转向他。

“不。是因为在这时候遇到的人，大多是错误的。”

——我爱的人正在人群何处狂欢？

——我低头不语，她雀跃旋转。

 

一声烟花突然在年轻精灵更多的那一侧人群中轰响。擅自放起“烟花”的肇事者是那个身负魔法的白发女孩，她正在年长些的同伴们的起哄之下试图将第二枚金绿迸杂的光球瞄准附近的树顶。营地上空的变幻光影照耀出此刻人群的中心：一名修长健朗的年轻精灵男人背向而立，将饰有流苏的斗篷披在一名身形颀长的女子身后，再牵起她的手放在脸颊上。她调皮地将手抽开，却顺势啄了啄他的脸颊；于是他将她搂进怀里深深一吻，拥着她轻缓摇晃。

“这小兔崽子就这么想惹出点事来？！年轻真好，不知天高地厚，什么都想一试……”

阿瓦拉克不由得移开了眼神——那名在恋人怀中雀跃旋舞的女子，有灰白色的头发。

年轻而又年长的精灵女人无奈地将手杖往地上一顿。“我要去警告这孩子了，万一弄出什么响动把圣殿武士给招来，那可不好看。”

“那您就……继续在这吹吹风？晚安，‘年事已高’的长者。”

“……真不去听啊？可惜了。我们老庭司⑧的歌喉在部族大会⑨里也是有名的……”

精灵女人的自语渐行渐远，树下再度陷入沉寂，篝火光圈之外隐约传来情人间的软语与笑谈。一阵小风拂过半枯的草叶，弦音在树梢流连，如绵如缠。独眼老乐师依然在歌唱关于花潮灿烂时节的怀想，乐句在山风林涛之间缥缈如同咏叹。

——或许只因您已心有所属？

即便没有读谁的心，但他还是在自己深长的呼吸与心脏的沉重搏动之间分明听见另一个声音的窃窃私语。也许是那位脸上纹着神鸦的首席，也许是别人。他掐住了那个声音的喉管，但却在鼓膜突如其来的震颤中被钉在原地。

——她亲吻别人，我却得不到那个吻；

——盛满醉意的亲吻伤彻心肝。

“阿瓦拉克。”

精灵女儿的脚步敏捷轻盈，狩魔猎人⑩的行迹隐秘无声。

他的脚在地上生了根。来人故作轻松的语气让他想立即抬脚走开……或是转身与她对视。而她却抢先一步欺身上前，捂住了他的眼睛。上古血脉之子秉性自由，不喜服从也不受拘束。

她放开手时，他依旧闭着眼。然后，他感受到了肩头毛毡斗篷的重量，以及树脂在火堆中噼啪作响时的辛烈香气。对方的温暖鼻息与他自己的呼吸挨得很近，他忽然意识到吉薇艾尔在今晚滴酒未沾。

树脂与柴烟的气息越发接近。当鼻尖相触的一刻，他的眼睫微微作痒，像是落上了一只胆怯的飞虫。而秋夜的山风吹凉了她扶在他脸侧的手指，于是他下意识地睁眼、要检查她是否穿得太过单薄——

脆弱的魔法瞬间消逝。

——他亲吻别人，我却得不到那个吻；

吉薇艾尔对他扬起脸，碧绿的瞳子在摇晃的夜色里灼灼闪光。她饰有疤痕的脸庞容色沉静，眉宇间却有种钢铁般坚硬的情绪，微张双唇下掩着紧闭的门齿。于是他心领神会地打开心灵通道。

——他们跟我说，这样的篝火看一次就少一次。我看到有人送你披肩，于是我也来了。

“吉薇艾尔——”

然而她却接连后退，面颊上泛起微红与无措，最后是一闪而过的慌乱。她转身向着人群、向着明亮的篝火飞奔而去。

——盛满醉意的亲吻伤彻心肝——

阿瓦拉克用力闭上双眼，徒劳地禁止自己想象双唇上缥缈虚幻的触觉。他徒劳地禁止自己的大脑想象这一刻：当她的微红面颊沉入新雪、当她的碧绿双瞳没入黑夜，当自己的目光最终再也无法越过篝火与人群落上那团灰白飞絮，就像深秋的树叶等不到初春，就像仲夏的飞蛾活不过冬月，就像长在暖国的鸟儿终要独自面对冰封的寂静永劫——

——伤彻心肝。

Fin.

Chapter Text

"Tonight, to the most propitious positioning of the stars, and to the fullest shape of the twin moons. As we offer the Creators gifts of sincerity, we pray that hunting during the season being fruitful, that the new snow at the end not being harsh, and that our people being safe and strong still in the coming year."

"Vibrant youths, venerable elders! Now comes the time when hearts are to excite—holy and blessed, we have a feast and a night to rejoice!"

The old Keeper held his staff aloft. Elves with face tattoos all rose from their seats to join the sea of joy. The autumn party awaits.

Music was played, songs were sung. Long hairs were woven into elegant high buns and pretty braid nets. Garbs and raiments were stained with the fragrance of turmerics and angelicas. Pointed ears were adorned with gold stars, silver rings and glistening bones and horns. Delicate bronze bells rang in every graceful whirling step. The one-eyed old musician thoughtfully drew the bow across the vertical strings, the wooden owl with a pair of mother-of-pearl eyes perching on top of his crook-necked fiddle then blinked in the flickering light of the campfire. A moment later, a mellifluous tune on those strings suddenly lilted through the applause, danced through the humming drums, smooth as satin and melodious as a creek. 

Where is my lover in crowd, with joy knowing no bound?

I dip my head in silence while her dance whirls around.

"Guest from afar, I once again convey a request on behalf of a daughter of my people. Bloodline containing magic runs deep in our clan, however, it can easily become too dense and unstable. You revere the stars, like us; you have travelled far, like us; you are visionary and sagacious and of extraordinary bearings. You are free to leave as you please, and we value the gift of blood from outside the clan. Even if you accepted this request, you don’t need to concern yourself with how she will live hereafter."

Avallac’h lifted his face from beneath the hood, the First of the clan was standing before him. The strange tattoo—the vallaslin of a divine raven was soaring in reddish-purple lines all over her face. Her slightly wrinkle-adorned eyes were as clear as amber wine in the magical illumination. He had never met an elf with such eyes in either the world of Aen Elle or the world of Aen Seidhe. The young elven woman who had previously fled into the night from under the tree he was sitting under had beautiful almond-shaped eyes with a green hue as rich as a dense forest being kissed by the morning sun. Then he closed his notebook carefully in hand, separating the next blank page from today’s newly-drawn picture with a fallen leaf. The old musician's mellow voice was still billowing over the music and tribal dances.

She kisses others and her lips will ever grace mine,

A kiss intoxicating and tipsy, half false and half sound.

"Thank you for your comments, but I still do not agree. Please ask her to go to someone else. Here is the shawl she just dropped off here, and I would be grateful if you would return it to her."

The female elven mage knowingly smiled.

"I will tell that girl. She is a very reasonable child." She took it and stretched herself, draped the felt shawl with its fine embroidery around her shoulders, leaned cozily against the tree behind him, and squeezed her eyes at the direction of the crowd. "I'm just a little curious. For your companion, the human girl, seems to be blending herself into our festival much better than you do."

Avallac’h swept over a glance to her, then followed her gaze to the blazing festival bonfire and tirelessly frolicking young elves. The striking mass of ashen-grey hair stood out quite prominently among the dark-haired hunters. From what he knew of her, she was probably still drinking. Elves in this world did not celebrate Belleteyn as how it should be, for that meant that clans wandering between human lords’ territories and keeping away from their soldiers would have to deal with weakened mothers and newborns in the harsh early spring,  when winds were still chilly while supplies had already run short enough. They gave thanks for the earth's bounty in autumn, meanwhile blessed prosperity in reproduction, all out of pragmatism but never romance. Not for the summer tide of flowers.

"She is not just some human. She is the daughter of an elf." Her ancestor was an elf who celebrated Belleteyn and Saovine in his distant homeland, his kin.

Where is my love in sight, with heart seeking delight?

I dip my head in silence while her dance leaps light.

"Speaking as if you were not an elf yourself." The elven woman shook her head and laughed quietly. "Or rather, have you never kissed anyone on a festival like this in your faraway homeland?" For a moment, Avallac’h was suddenly all uncomfortably aware that this woman who had long been a mother had become accustomed to tinting an inquisitive kindness that belonged to that status into her tone, even though he was older than her by a full digit.

"We celebrate this in spring." Avallac’h pulled his hood down to shield his face. "And you cannot possibly think that I have never had a lover." His kin had once worn a crown of hawthorn and rowan on Belleteyn and exchanged betrothal vows with him before the sacred bonfire in the presence of honoured guests from all across the kingdom. His kin had once given birth to a child, not his but a human's, up a hill somewhere by a love eternalized by death on spring’s threshold, and snow had come to take away that belated spring once and for all. Years after he would still kiss on Belleteyn, only he would no longer crown the others a flower wreath. Years after he had met a different Destiny under a fully bloomed cherry tree—born on the eve of May, just as he had predicted. Years after, he had waited long and would see…

The crowd had gradually divided into two sides: the side closer to him was still enjoying themselves in the music and dance, while another side across the roaring bonfire with more youngs suddenly and visibly gathered up for a moment. His eyes habitually searched again, but he couldn't find Zireael immediately: the gathering centre on that side was replaced by a group of light-haired females, and several heads among them had hair colours close to white. Unlike him, Zireael had long since changed into clan attire, with it being rather difficult to distinguish most face tattoos from none at this distance. But at least she was still in the crowd.

She kisses others and her lips will ever back to mine,

Who would pretend to love deeply in the Bloomingtide night?

 

"You actually do not look like one of those austere, stiff-as-a-dry-log hahrens. But why distant yourself from people?"

"After all, I'm too old indeed." And he did intend to fend off more than just young adults by the word. He pinched hard between his brows and continued to concentrate on searching the crowd, but the expected annoying weight of a felt shawl on his shoulders never arrived.

As if reading his mind, the elven woman burst into laughter. Even her hair bun adorned with dangling silver flowers threatened to be shaken askew at it.

" I shall apologise for being nosy, but you are mistaken." She sighed. "I was indeed only curious at how a long-lived elf like you would view our festival. Legend has it that my people once lived forever, but now our longevity has reduced to a state no better than humans. Seventy is rare, eighty is extraordinary, and passing a hundred is an unprecedented blessing from the gods that we dare not ask for. We still view marriage with lifelong promise as sacred, it is a custom handed down from our ancestors. Meanwhile, there is also a saying among our people that it is those who have never danced and kissed by a campfire who are most likely to talk recklessly and presumptuously of something lifelong and everlasting."

"Are you suggesting that it is only at such times that you would meet your destined mate?"

The elven woman four centuries younger turned to him. The divine raven flying over her face, the symbol of Dirthamen, their God of Knowledge and Secrets, turned its intense purple eyes to him as well.

"No. Because most of the people you meet by the fire are the wrong ones."

Where is my soul's desire, and whom her hand now takes?

I dip my head in silence while her dance toe shakes.

 

A bright star suddenly exploded over the crowd on the side with more young elves. The perpetrator of the unauthorized "firework" was a white-haired teenage mage girl. Incited by her older friends, she was trying to aim a second green-and-gold ball of light at a nearby treetop. The shifting light over the camp illuminated the centre of the crowd at the moment: a well-built young elven man stood with his back facing the bonfire and him, draped a fringed cloak on the shoulder of a young woman before taking her hand and placing it on his cheek. She drew her hand away mischievously but pecked his cheek on the way. So he took her into his arms and kissed her deeply, holding her and gently rocking.

"Is this little devil that eager to cause more trouble? Good to be young, right? Fear none, and have everything to try…"

Avallac’h cast his eyes away. That young woman, who was rocking and swaying in her lover's arms, had ashen-grey hair.

The still-too-much-younger-than-him elven woman helplessly thudded her staff to the ground. "I'm going to warn that child. It will only be all too splendid if this little show drew any uninvited guests like Templars to us."

"So you'll…continue to enjoy the breeze here? Good night then, 'old indeed' hahren."

"…Really not going back and enjoy the music? Pity. Our hearthkeeper's singing voice gained so much popularity in the Arlathvhen, you don’t know…"

With the First's self-talk fading into the distance, his place under the tree became quiet once again, aside from occasional murmurs and giggles from elven lovers beyond the bonfire's illumination. A small breeze stroked through half-dead grass and fallen leaves, carrying the fiddle’s lament over the treetop, lingering and tangling. The one-eyed old musician was still singing the nostalgia of a glorious flowering season, the phrase of melody misty as moonlight, all woven in the whispering autumn forest and the sighing mountain breeze.

Maybe, that’s because your heart was stolen by someone else?

Even though he wasn’t reading anyone's mind, he still heard this strange whisper rose among his own deep breaths and the heavy beatings of his heart. Perhaps it was the First with raven-shaped vallaslin, perhaps it was someone else. He wanted to strangle the voice's throat but was pinned in place by the sudden shudder of his eardrums.

She kisses others and will never gift me another,

A kiss intoxicating and tipsy, shredding my heart in flakes.

"Avallac'h."

Steps of the daughter of an elf were swift and light. Movements of the witcheress were stealthy and silent.

His feet rooted in the ground. The uninvited visitor's purportedly light-hearted tone made him want to lift a foot and walk away…or turn around to confront her. But then she leapt to his back ahead of his action and instantly covered his eyes. The Child of the Elder Blood is free and uninhibited and never fully obedient.

When she put off her hand, his eyes were still closed. Then he took in the weight of that fringed cloak on his shoulders, and the rich scent of fragrant resin as incense wood crackled in the bonfire on his nose. In the next moment, her warm breath was so close to his own that he was suddenly aware that Zireael hadn’t touched a drop of wine tonight.

The scent of resin and woodsmoke drew ever closer. The moment their noses touched, his eyelashes tingled slightly, as if a timid flying insect had landed on. However, the breeze of an autumn night chilled the fingers she held on the side of his face. He instinctively opened his eyes, to check if she was dressed too thin for the weather...

Then the fragile magic was gone.

He kisses others and will never gift me another,

Zireael lifted her face to him, her emerald irises glowing faintly in the shifting night air. Her scar-adorned face looked serene, but there was something steel resided between her brows. She slightly parted her lips, yet beneath them, her teeth were tightly closed. So he considerately opened his mind-eye.

They told me that every bonfire burns like it’s the last, and to see it once more now also means once less ahead. I saw someone gave you a shawl, so I came too.

"Zireael..."

Yet she recoiled and backed, one step after another. Her cheeks flushed and she quickly became overwhelmed, and all the fluster finally catalyzed a flash of panic. She turned and darted toward the crowd and the crackling, bright bonfire.

A kiss intoxicating and tipsy, shredding my heart in flakes.

Avallac'h closed his eyes hard, vainly forbidding himself to imagine that faint, illusory warm touch on his lips. He forbade his mind in vain to imagine this moment: when her flushed cheeks sank into the fresh snow, when her shining green irises disappeared into the dark night, when his eyes searched beyond numerous bonfires and crowds but failed to find her ashen-grey locks. Just like how late autumn leaves cannot wait for the spring, like how midsummer moths cannot survive to the winter, like how a bird born in a warm land is destined to face the silent cold condemnation of an eternal frozen season...

“Shredding my heart in flakes.”