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Dark shadows danced in the recesses of the grotto, the light of Aven's core illuminating the walls in a muted copper glow. From the far end of the underground lake, he could scarcely make out the other side, only thin outlines in dull gold.
But the outflowing river…
A yawning maw, darker than even his own obsidian shell, beckoned him for further exploration. He couldn't just yet; his bond with Edda had drawn their tether taut, and he loathed the idea of stretching it further. What if it snapped? Could it snap? He'd rather not find out.
He turned back, the tense knot of worry from Edda loosening into relief. The dim glow of a grapple-light sat affixed near the ledge where Aven had entered the lake. He vaulted himself over the ledge and pushed against the slow, strong current. How far was the opening to the Glade?
Edda was there, waiting. She grasped at his arm and he took hold, letting himself be hauled out. The crisp air of the Glade of Gloaming stung against his drenched shell. He tumbled out, taking her down with him and landing in an undignified mess of limbs and laughter.
Untangling herself from him, Edda sat up on her knees and helped Aven sit up himself. “What did you find?” she asked with a giggling lilt.
Aven struggled to disentangle his humor from hers—some of their feelings were easy to mutually filter out, but others such as joy fed in upon itself, rebounding between the two and amplifying until nothing but the emotion remained. Counting each pulse of his core distinguished where his joy ended and hers began. Calm settled over him, leaving the emotional high as a pleasant warmth, and she calmed too.
Her fingers interlaced with his. “What did you find?” she repeated, voice still in a smile, but more stable now.
Aven glanced at the murmuring river, discovered from a misaimed ax swing during a spar. “It leads into a lake and flows out into another river.” Licks of flame danced across his shell in an effort to dry out and warm up. “I didn't explore further, the bond…” The words died before he could say them.
A ripple of uncertainty from her. Her grip tightened. She said nothing for several core-pulses. Aven nearly spoke up, then she said, “You didn't see any dry spots, did you?”
He shook his head. More silence.
She broke it again. “How far do you think it goes?”
“I don't know.”
“Would there be any dry sections further downstream?”
“I don't know. Edda, we don't ha—”
“I can do it, Aven.” Her gaze hardened. Her light burned steadily. “If only you'll help me.”
Aven squeezed her hand. “Are you sure about this?”
She looked away. Her form dissipated into faint, shimmering wisps of white and blue.
In her corner of his mind, she whispered, “I am.”
Aven jogged down a long stretch of cavernous river, his claws itching for anything beyond the monotonous descent. During his walk, he noticed why the cave felt so wrong to him: there was nothing alive down here. No roots poked into the cavern roof, no plants unfurled at his feet with each step, not even a single dark star erupted from the ground writhing to fight. The river made sharp turns in some places, winding arcs in others, and Aven had bruised his pride in a graceless fall when the river pitched abruptly downward. Edda had asked him once or twice to inspect a glimmering patch of ore or unusually-shaped rock, but otherwise offered little inquiry or commentary.
How long had it been since she'd spoken?
“I'm fine,” Edda's voice murmured in that small part of him.
Aven didn't think she sounded fine.
“I am, Aven.”
“Could you not listen in on my thoughts, please?” he said aloud, nearly startling himself—his voice wasn't that loud, was it?
“You were thinking about me; I can't help that.” At least some of her spirit seemed to return to her voice. “And no, I think it has something to do with the acoustics in here.”
“Acoustics”. What a funny word.
“Is there anything you want to talk about? Make the journey easier?”
Irritation that was not his flared up in his core. Odd. What would she have to be irritated over?
“I'm sorry,” she whispered, voice and thought validating her words. “I'm sorry, please forget that.”
A strange, dark emotion pooled from her, one he hadn't felt since before they united. Shame? Why would she be feeling…?
“Stop. Please. Just stop.”
Aven halted in his path.
“No, I mean—”
“Edda, are you alright?”
Fear gripped at his core. Her fear. The bond yearned to return the emotion in kind, but he steadied himself with each pulse of his core.
“Aven, please keep walking.” The words spilled from her like a deluge. “There has to be a dry spot somewhere up ahead. I want—” She grew quiet, as if she'd bitten the words off herself.
“Edda?”
“Please keep going.”
Aven continued at a hastened walk, barely giving heed to his surroundings as he probed at the little spot she sat tucked away in.
Her fear spiked. “No, Aven, don't—”
Driven by the near-crushing fear and dread and horror, he jabbed into her mind and reeled at the ensuing eruption of sheer panic.
We're lost down here we're going to be down here forever we'll never find the end—No. No— we're almost there we're almost at the end there is no end there's nothing but water and darkness and water and dark water forever and ever I want to go back—No—I will be strong for Aven I need to go back I need air again I need…
A sob escaped him. How did he end up crouched upon the riverbed? Aven needed to steady himself—this fear was not his. With each pulse of his core, he calmed down. Her fear was not his.
He leaned against the cavern wall, easing himself up to his feet. Flailing panic groped for control of his core, but he kept reminding himself her fear was not his. Perhaps she would calm a little if he continued walking. On shaky legs, he took his first step, his second, third, fourth, one hand on the walls. The panic lessened, but only a little. It was a start.
His voice returned to him. “Edda?”
The fear still gripped her. It was her fear now, only her fear. She didn't respond.
Aven kept walking, fingers tracing the groves of eroded stone. He hummed a quiet melody, amplified by the… acoustics of the cavern. “We'll find a dry spot soon,” he assured her. He continued his humming, the lyrics just out of his reach. He didn't think he'd ever heard this song before.
When he finished a second verse, Edda finally spoke, voice fragile and small. “You don't know that.”
“No, I don't,” he admitted. “But eventually there will be.”
“Liar.”
The new word stabbed at his core. Fury rushed to fill its place. No. Now was the worst time to get angry. He quickened his step. He could not get angry.
Tension strained against him, a barrage of high emotions demanding to be reciprocated. Those emotions are not his. He needed to find a pocket of air, not just for her sake, but also his own.
In a small murmur amongst the cacophony, he recalled the promise they had made on the surface.
“Edda.”
She didn't stir, too consumed in her fear and anger—not his anger, this was of a different flavor, more bitter—spite, that's what it was. Or something close to it.
Aven continued despite her silence. “When you agreed to this, you said you could do this if only I helped you.”
A small stir. A slight lift of the head in interest.
“Please let me help you, Edda.”
The raging storm quieted to rumbles. She crackled deep within. A final crash. Stillness. Worry surged up in Aven. This wasn't the tranquil stillness of restful peace, but an exhausted stillness—the stillness of a light star worn down from the hunt and surrendering to the rending claws and teeth of the dark.
Aven longed to comfort her, but refrained; this was her turn to act. He instead focused on the placement of his steps and the feel of the stone ceiling on his fingers. Was it the biting cold water that numbed his hands and feet or could he truly feel nothing?
“Aven.”
She was so small, so quiet. If his footfalls had been any louder, he would've missed her.
“Yes, Edda?”
She let the acknowledgement hang between them. “That song. I'd like to hear more.”
“Of course, dearest.”
It took him a moment to recall the melody, but soon his core pulsed to the beat of the tune he hummed. From its bouncing canter, he felt from instinct it was meant to dance to. Dancing… another strange concept to bloom in his mind. The notion wasn't unwelcome, though; perhaps one day he could try dancing with Edda. Would she like dancing?
Something stirred within him, the smallest ghost of an emotion from her. It slipped between his fingers before he could catch it.
More humming. More walking. The song looped in on itself many times over. She asked for a new song. After many core-pulses and several apologies for the wait, he began another song—slower, more pauses between notes—still a dancing-song, but more somber. He had never heard this one before either.
“I know this one,” she said during the first few bars. Her voice still held a brittle edge, but nowhere near as fragile as earlier. “Start from the beginning.”
He did, and with trembling, airy notes, Edda sang the lyrics. The words sang of a light star in the grip of a dark star, sinking into the darkness as he seized her light from her core. The light star wondered if her assailant had ever tasted the joy of being light and merely wanted it again. She wondered if he had tried seizing the light of other stars and had failed. She figured she'd been a light star for long enough; it was her time to be a dark star. She sang of the fears her sisters whispered between themselves, of the horrors their fallen sisters endured, of the pride their new sisters had in their new light.
With each verse, Edda's voice strengthened. The star of the song accepted his new dark mantle, wondering if he'd ever know the joy of light again and wishing the new light star to enjoy her new identity. The final verse ended from the perspective of the new light star, singing of how becoming light had made being dark worthwhile.
Aven finished humming; Edda finished singing. Uncertainty settled between the two, mutual but distinct—neither of them had experienced the trials of their former brothers and sisters.
“I don't like this song,” Edda said after the refrain.
“I'll find us another then.”
Neither could recall the words to the new song, so both hummed together. By the fifth verse, Aven noticed the cave walls had broadened.
“Are we almost there?” The raw hope in her voice hurt to hear.
“I don't know.”
Aven marched on, humming the melody of a new song. The cave walls had somehow grown fuller in their color, as if the dull gray of the earlier caverns had been a mere formality. The water didn't just flow placidly, but writhed in a torrent and somehow acquired a mild temperature.
The cave broadened even further, deep blue dancing with bright indigoes in the distance. “We're almost done!” Hope, both his and hers, flared in his core.
Aven picked up his pace to a light jog. The river cave opened to an expanse of brisk, shimmering blue-violet waters, pale blue growth sprouting at his feet. Looking up, the broken form of the radiant Eye in the heavens peered down below.
“Where are we?” Edda asked, awe fluttering from her.
Aven traced the constellations in his mind, still the same sets that emerged upon their transcendence. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Aven! Aven! There's dry land over there!”
Aven started with a mixture of his own alarm and Edda's rush of hope, relief, and excitement. He found the gentle slope towards the shoreline and began making his way there, anticipation building in him like Edda's drawn bow. The water warmed with his ascent; a restless chill shuddered in his core. His head broke the surface and he tasted the warm, sweet air of strange, blooming things. His shoulders emerged next, then torso, legs, his first step on the black sandy shoal.
The chill from within burst, freezing the air around him for less than a core-pulse.
Next thing he knew, he laid prone on the sands, the weight of another atop him.
Her arms embraced him from behind, her cool shell welcome despite the prior cold. Laughter—her laughter, her sweet laughter—rang in the air, heavy, but growing lighter, no longer in her corner of his mind. Unfettered joy mixed with raging relief roared through their bond. He too laughed—a little noise growing with each resonance.
He adjusted himself to lay on his back and held her for the first time in too long. He held her tight, basking in the trembling joy on her end. She grasped at him for a steadier hold. His fingers laced through her hair. She buried her face in his chest. He nestled his face in her crown.
A new emotion rippled from her—no, a knot of emotions, wrestling into each other like dark stars squabbling over a single weakened light star. Sorrow yearned to be reciprocated, and some of it eked through to him. Perhaps he could allow himself a little sorrow. Regret clouded her sorrow, softened by his mere appreciation for her presence. The third emotion generated his own sorrow distinct from hers, flavored with pity and a longing for her to shed the destructive notion: shame.
“I'm sorry,” Edda whispered in the smallest of voices, shuddering, grip tightening on his shell. “I'm so sorry I said—” A sob choked her. She hid her face in his chest as her own shell shivered from the wracking emotion. He kissed the top of her head and squeezed her close. Her shivering lessened. “I didn't let you help me. I'm so sorry—”
Aven shushed her, his core heavy with his own grief. “Hey, enough of that.” He lifted her face to look at him. “I'm sorry for making it worse; I shouldn't have pried.”
She averted his gaze. “I shouldn't have been keeping it from you.”
“Irrelevant.” His thumb stroked her cheek; she sank into it ever-so-slightly. “Edda.”
She glanced back at him, nervousness and apprehension bubbling in her.
He brought her face to his until all he could see was her. He took her in, all of her: her fingers trembling against his shell, her hair draping over the both of them, her legs interlacing with his.
Aven nuzzled her face. “I forgive you.”
Her anxieties broke. A rush of new, warm emotions ruptured within her—Aven felt no need to identify them, she needed all of them. Edda nestled her head into the crook of his neck, a new wave of shuddering overcoming her and seizing her voice. Aven squeezed her close.
“It's alright now, Edda,” he whispered. His own voice would give out soon. “I forgive you.”
Her sorrow flowed into him, but he counted each pulse of his core to maintain himself—he had enough of his own emotions to sort through. Her grip on him tightened, desperate for stability in her turbulent state. She said something, but her emotions were too thick to be intelligible.
He shushed her, caressing her hair. “Would you forgive me for invading your mind like I did?”
Between unstable sobs, she croaked out, “Of course…”
Satisfied with her response, Aven allowed the sorrow to wash through him. The two clung to each other on the shoal, soaking in the touch of the other's shell on theirs. No more words needed to be said. Just holding each other was enough.
Nothing mattered more in this moment.
Slowly, they calmed.
Cool white shell pressed against warm black. Dark sand surrounded them. The distant thunder of warring stars punctuated the murmuring of the sea. The Eye still watched.
Aven felt stripped and worn—almost hollow from the aftermath of their emotional maelstrom. From the bond, Edda felt likewise.
Drowsily, her fingers found his hair, gathering several locks in a fist. The tug at his scalp was firm, but not uncomfortable, relaxing even. What would drive him mad was her face nuzzling into his temple, down his jawline, back again, light as frost over the fronds in the Silver Summit.
A dry chuckle escaped Edda. “Your turn to be unraveled,” she teased, her voice ragged.
Heat rose in Aven's face. “I'd rather not do that now.” Knowing Edda, he had half a mind to shove her face away before she'd continue out of faylike contrarianism. “We've got an entire new realm to explore, and the first—no, second thing you want to do is—?”
She tapped a finger to his face. “You blather too much, Aven.” The fingers in his hair began caressing his scalp while her free hand traced the smooth ridges of his upper chest. Oh no, she could not be allowed to proceed with that.
“You have some rather skewed priorities.” Aven scooped her up as he sat upright, pulling a startled yelp out of her as she scrambled for purchase. “Come on, we've seen enough dull void-cave walls—let's go explore this new realm. You can always unravel me later.”
Edda chuckled, all prior hurt and shame gone from her voice. “I'll hold you to that promise.” Worldless above, that gleam in her core did not bode well for future Aven. She laughed harder from his rising dread. Her gaze softened, then fluttered down to her hands in her lap. “I'd like one more hug before we set out.”
Aven nodded. The two shifted on the sands so they sat beside each other, then curled into a tight hug.
“Thank you,” Edda said, nuzzling her face into his shoulder.
“Anything.” Aven reciprocated the gesture.
“I love you, my breath.”
“Likewise, my spark.”
The hug lasted eons and only several core-pulses. They eventually pulled away, leaving both wanting more.
“Let's go,” Edda said, raising first. She added as she helped Aven to his feet, “Perhaps there's more than just the Indigo Sea out here.”
Aven glanced up at the mountain, something thin and dark wafting from its chimney. “The peak over yonder is a start.”
Excitement bubbled up from her. “Come on, then!” She spun on her heel, tugging on his hand. “The realm is ours to explore.”
His core burst from the joy of seeing her so elated—and her resultant joy brought a welcome warmth. Joy fed on joy. Sheepish gleams rose to awkward chuckling rose to embarrassed laughter. Hand in hand, laughter resonating between them, they sang a song neither remembered the words to, a trail of pale blue-violet blossoms sprouting in their wake.