Chapter Text
There is a tale, from long, long ago. A tale of the Sun, a tale of the Moon, a tale of the bond they forged.
Local folklore suggests that the Sun and Moon had always been apart, and then they were together, and now they’re together and apart, somehow at the same time. Folklore is confusing like that sometimes.
While the actual bodies in the sky of the sun and the moon are not the characters of this story, instead we have the two beings connected to them. Phillip, and Kristin.
Phillip, or Phil, was a mortal man, born to mortal parents, with mortal siblings, in a mortal village. He grew up adventurous, always journeying out into the nearby wetlands and forest to see what he could find. He’d find snakes, he’d find flowers, always bringing them back to show his family. The snakes made his sisters scream, and the flowers always went to his mother. His mother repaid his kindness by sewing him a cloak, the same deep green as the wetlands, with a large embroidered sunflower on the back. There was a patch of sunflowers, a little deep into the wetlands, where the sun shone fully, and those were his favorite to tend to and bring back. It became his nickname, Sunflower, to everyone. His family, his friends, his village.
Days he would spend in the wetlands, with the sun filtering through the trees, shining gently on the water, where the snakes and fish swam. Despite the heat and humidity, he felt content and calm while in the wetlands.
On one particular adventure he found a wall of vines. While that may seem uneventful, he pushed through, finding a small moat inside. The moat surrounded an island, and in the middle of that island sat a tall, gnarled tree, whose branches extended high above, draping the wall of vines down. A secluded little spot. Phil was elated, and decided to keep this one spot secret. There was a small patch of sunlight next to the tree, where a gap in the branches above let it shine down.
He’d spend many days there. While unkempt at first, and too overgrown, he trimmed and pruned a little here and there, turning it into an orderly chaotic garden. With his help, flowers bloomed, cornflowers and hydrangeas, snapdragon and, in the night, moonflowers.
He grew up there, passing his childhood, passing his teens, growing up into his twenties. His cloak became worn, well worn and well cared for with the passing of time. He commonly paired it with a deep brown tunic, and soft green trousers of similar color to the cloak. He had spent many years building a small cottage on the outskirts of the wetlands, just past the border of the village, where he was always close to his favorite place. He knew the stories of magic, of course, and trusted in the magic of the wetlands to keep him safe. The Old Magic was strong here, after all his toil kept it thriving. The Old Magic knew his essence, and responded jovially when he journeyed deep into the heart of the wetlands.
He loved it here. He didn’t want to leave. He vowed never to leave, not if anything happened. His hideaway had remained hidden all this time, no one finding it, and over the years it had matured, flourishing with all its flowers. It was his most favorite place. He would never leave it.
And that’s exactly when he decided to leave it.