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The night sky is scattered with celestial dust and an endless field of a thousand thousand twinkling stars. The large, full moon that hangs high overhead, pale and haloed with light, casts the dark landscape in a dozen shades of blue and black and white. The long grasses that hug the ground and the leaves that scrape the sky from the tall silhouettes of trees rustle in the warm, softly blowing wind, their edges frosted with lines of light set against deep, impenetrable pools of shadow. A pond sits in the open clearing, its surface a smooth black mirror that reflects the sky above, ringed with pale stones jutting up from the blue-black earth like scattered, misshapen teeth. Insects click and trill to each other, and the occasional low, liquid note of a night bird drifts through the air like a mournful codetta to the endlessly repeating nightsong.
The surface of the pond breaks and a figure rises from the depths of the water. The man stands still for a moment, then lifts his hands and smooths long, dripping strands of shining night-black hair back from his furrowed brow, turning his face and closed eyes skyward as he does so. Water flows off his body, blue skin turned milky pale in the moonlight, rivulets of water tracing the contours of his body and running over the muscles that cover his lean frame, leaving behind small droplets that cling to his smooth skin and reflect the moonlight shining on him like a scattering of diamonds. It drips from the fall of his hair and down the length of his neck, over the sharp ridges of his collarbones, past the rise and fall of his chest as he slowly and calmly takes in and releases breath; channeling along his spine from the muscles of his broad shoulders and back, down his deceptively strong arms, past his taut stomach and firm buttocks and long thighs where they emerge from the pond’s surface. He covers his face with his large yet surprisingly dexterous hands, the fingers long and clever, and smooths away the water that lingers there.
His eyes open, two points that glow in the darkness like ruby stars, incongruent with the landscape that surrounds him but perfectly matched to the moon and unknown constellations that slowly turn above; he is not meant to be here, in this pond cleansing himself of the dusty remnants this empty world leaves on him. He is meant to be up there, among the stars; the small echoes of them that he carries are not enough to quell the ache in his heart. Perhaps tomorrow will be the day that he is found and taken back to the skies, or the day after that. He is powerless to do anything but wait, and be ready for the day when it comes.
He squeezes the liquid out of his sodden hair as he steps out of the water, long legs and sure steps taking him between the stones and back towards the darkness of the trees. His fingers run through his hair as he goes, clearing nonexistent tangles; he is nude, but it does not matter. The gentle breeze dries his skin, and he is comfortable with his body.
There is no one else here to see him.