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I will survive the wrong
I’ve done. All the love
that didn’t serve me.
My youth used up
worshipping mercurial
myopics. I’ve cried a lot
very briefly. This sorrow has helped
make my career. Yes,
I’m a difficult person
to endure, I hardly manage.
Oh hum, the rest of my life
keeps coming. It feels just
like I knew it would.
The low, quick scratching of Moon’s pen on the page is the only sound to fill the study. She sits in a cushioned chair with her feet tucked under her, working through a book of poems. She wears a blue robe tied tightly over a satin slip dress. Her hair is down, her bangs slightly tousled by the way she keeps running her hands through it.
Almost half of the poems in the book have been marked up, her annotations staining the margins in blue ink. Her current poem is titled goatsong. She has been re-reading it for the past fifteen minutes, to the point of being able to copy it from memory if she wanted to.
This is a common way for Moon to cope with her insomnia. After an hour or two of tossing and turning next to River, who would not wake even if the world was ending, she slips out of bed and swiftly strides into the study. She immediately turns every single light on, freeing the room of its shadows. She can’t stand a shadowy night. Hasn’t been able to since her mother died. The shadows move, they watch, they take shapes she doesn’t want to see. Her nightmares make her especially paranoid.
Moon sighs, running a hand through her hair again. She circles the words “survive” “endure” and “manage” then underlines the words “love” “sorrow” “youth” and “mercurial myopics.” I endure myself, she writes. She double underlines, “It feels just/like I knew it would.” Then, she double underlines, “the wrong/I’ve done.”
The poem is making her sad, but she likes it. She never really gets to feel sadness, not unless everyone else is asleep. She craves it often, that cathartic ache, the secret weight she keeps tucked away for herself, stored safely in the center of her chest. Returning to sadness feels like returning home. It feels good. Though, she rarely cries.
She is writing down the name of a song the poem reminds her of, a song that gives her this same feeling, when a loud crash startles her so badly she gasps, bracing against the arm of the chair. Her pen made a streak across the page— only an inch, but enough to annoy her. Moon lets out an angry huff, her heart jackrabbiting in her chest as she closes the book over the pen, tucks it under her arm, and marches down the hall to investigate who would dare make such an unfathomable racket at this hour.
Down the hall, the door to the servant’s kitchen is open. A bit of warm light flickers across the doorway, accompanied by whispered cursing.
“Shit, shit — oh, no, oh fuck — this was supposed to be easy!”
Moon stops in the middle of the doorway to find Eclipsa, in her pajamas with her hair wrapped in a pink silk scarf, holding a pot of something burning. A thick puddle of brown is on the floor, and the left gas burner is still aflame. None of the lights are on, though Eclipsa appears to have brought a candlestick with her. She and Moon lock eyes, and for a moment neither of them moves. They just stand there, staring, until Moon finally shakes herself out of it.
“Eclipsa! What the hell are you doing? It’s well past midnight and you’re making enough noise to wake the entire castle.”
Moon flips the light switch and Eclipsa squints, shrinking from the overhead light.
“I was just making pudding,” Eclipsa says, rubbing her eyes. “It seems to have… gotten away from me.”
Moon eyes the suspicious looking sludge on the floor. “I can see that.”
“Not to worry. I think I know what I did wrong this go around. Third time’s a charm!” She waves Moon off. “You can return to bed, I’ll be quiet, I promise.”
Moon rolls her eyes aggressively, groans, and promptly steps over the mess on the floor. She snatches the pot from Eclipsa’s hand and presses the book into her chest, forcing her to take it.
“Just go sit down,” Moon says, flicking her wrist at the table across the small room, which is about the size of a large broom closet. “I’ll do it.”
Eclipsa tilts her head. “You don’t have to do that. I mean it, I really am sorry for waking you. You can go back to—“
“You didn’t wake me,” Moon says, her voice softening just a touch. She puts the ruined pan in the sink and retrieves a fresh one. “Go sit down. This won’t take long.”
“Okay. The recipe card is—“
“I don’t need a recipe.”
Eclipsa lets out a thoughtful hm! and sits down.
Moon points her finger at the mess on the floor, draws a circle in the air, and it levitates into the trash can. Then she gets to work on the pudding, first by drastically lowering the heat, then by measuring the dry ingredients and whisking them together.
“You can’t sleep either?” Eclipsa asks.
Moon sighs. “No.”
“Was it a nightmare?”
“What?” Moon saps her head around to look at her, paranoid, for a moment, that Eclipsa can somehow read her mind.
Eclipsa shrugs. “I asked if you had a nightmare.”
“Oh,” Moon says. She turns back to the stove without elaborating.
“That’s alright, you don’t have to share.” Eclipsa drums her fingers on the table. ”How do you know how to make pudding without a recipe? Do you cook? Oh! Your mother was a chef, wasn’t she?”
“Yes, she was.” Moon starts to measure out the butter, vanilla, and milk. “More of a baker, really.”
“How interesting,” Eclipsa says. “And you are, too?”
“To a degree. I’m not nearly as skilled as she was, though.”
“What else do you make?” Eclipsa asks, looking up at her with her chin in her hand.
For a moment, the entire world seems to cease existing except for Eclipsa’s eyes, purple and shining and lifted slightly by her tired smile.
Moon blinks. “What?”
Eclipsa’s brow furrows in adorable concern. “Wow, you really are tired. I asked what else you can make, besides pudding?”
“Oh. Lots of things. Pies, candies, cakes, that sort of thing.”
“Candies?” Eclipsa sits up. “Chocolates?”
Moon can’t help but chuckle. “Yes, chocolates. It’s not as hard as you think. Well, depending on what you’re wanting to achieve, I suppose.”
“Could you make me some?”
“Maybe. If I have time. Depending on how much trouble you cause.”
“Oh I’ll be on my best behavior,” Eclipsa says, crossing her heart. “Although maybe I should wait to see how good this pudding turns out to be.” She leans forward and rests her chin on her hand again, looking up at Moon with an interested smile. “How do you make them?”
Moon sucks in a small breath, faltering as she tries to focus on slowly adding the milk without curdling it, instead of getting sidetracked by... her peripheral vision.
“Um…”
It doesn’t mean anything, that’s what she tells herself. Eclipsa looks at everyone like that, as though each person is a private chest of personal treasures she’s eager to rifle through. And Moon— well. She’s just not used to it. It’s not butterflies, in her gut. It’s just anxiety. Normal, rational anxiety stemming from Eclipsa’s overly fascinated, boundary-crossing nature. And the feeling in her chest, the one reminiscent of that sadness she’s so fond of, it’s just… misplaced nostalgia. Perhaps leftover from her reading. Or exhaustion. Probably exhaustion.
Moon just stares into the bubbling mixture, gradually zoning out as she tries to numb her feelings.
Eclipsa lets her without trying to pick the conversation back up. Several minutes go by. The next time Moon looks over, she sees Eclipsa hunched over her poetry book, writing something.
“What are you doing?” Moon starts to reach for it, but can’t move from the stove. “Eclipsa.”
“What? You shoved it at me, remember?” Eclipsa chews her lip, tapping the pen against her cheek before seeming to have an epiphany and scribbling something down.
“Stop that! That is mine. Who do you think you are, writing in other people’s books?” Moon scoffs, the familiar comfort of frustration giving her some of her power back. She glances between Eclipsa and the pot of pudding that needs constant stirring. “Eclipsa. Eclipsa.”
“Sorry, Moon, I’m in a creative flow. Your annotations inspired me.”
Moon throws her head back and lets out an embarrassed sigh, her shoulders dropping. “Those are private,” she mutters. Nevertheless, she lets Eclipsa continue, if only because she’s already tainted the book with her handwriting anyways, but also to have some peace at the stove. It’s always been pleasantly hypnotic, leaning her face over a pot of something steaming, waiting, watching, nothing else to do but this, nowhere else to be but here. She keeps glancing at Eclipsa out of the corner of her eye, sighing pointedly.
After a few more minutes, Eclipsa stares at the page, smiling and biting her thumb nail. She lets out a chuckle.
Moon scowls. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing. Just a thought I had.”
“What thought?” Moon’s tone is more desperate than she’d like.
Eclipsa looks up, her amusement settling slightly. “Just about my own ideas, don’t worry. It’s nothing.”
Moon turns away to hide her blush, and to click the burner off. She removes the pot from the heat and gives the pudding a final stir.
“Pudding’s done,” she says. ”It just needs to cool.”
“I like it hot.”
“You like it warm,” Moon corrects. “I can guarantee that you don’t want to burn your tongue clean off.”
Eclipsa rolls her eyes, flicking her hand dismissively. “Tomāto, tomato.”
Moon stands in front of Eclipsa and holds out her hand, making a ‘give it here’ motion. Eclipsa hands over the book, smiling sweetly and leaning her cheek against her fist.
The book is opened to the poem Moon left off with. She expects to find chaotic scribbling all over the page, but instead finds a new poem, written in Eclipsa’s looping scrawl, at the bottom right of the page.
I will survive worshipping
all the love
I feel. I’ve cried
a lot. This sorrow
has helped my youth
serve me.
Oh, I’ve done difficult
myopics. Yes, I’m briefly
mercurial. Very wrong.
My hum didn’t
rest, like my career.
I manage
a hardly used life—
it keeps coming. It knew:
the person who feels
would endure.
Moon takes a seat at the table, her eyes not leaving the page and she looks between the original poem and Eclipsa’s version. The new poem is constructed entirely of the original poem’s words. There are a few words she didn’t use, which are listed to the side: make, of, up, just. An added word: who.
“So?” Eclipsa looks at her with animated curiosity. “What do you think?”
“This is actually quite impressive. You did this just now?”
Eclipsa nods.
Moon gives an approving nod back, tilting her head. “But, I wouldn’t say it’s an improvement. I quite liked the original.”
“It’s not meant to be an improvement. Just a different version. Another feeling.”
“Right.” Moon rereads it again. “It is similar, I suppose. A kind of sadness. A sort of… ascending sadness. It isn’t so… concentrated.”
“That’s hope,” Eclipsa says. She laughs behind her hand. “‘Ascending sadness.’ That’s good. I’ve never heard someone go to such creative lengths to avoid the word hope.”
“I wasn’t avoiding it,” Moon scoffs, avoiding eye contact. “I just didn’t realize that’s what it was.”
Eclipsa hums. Then she chuckles softly, watching Moon compare the poems. “So, you like poetry, you make desserts— what else don’t I know about you?”
Moon almost responds, but when she looks up, the words get caught behind her ribs.
There’s something both dreamy and grounded about the way Eclipsa looks at her, chin in her hand, her soft, inviting smile. Her expression is warm, almost fond, like she knows she’s going to be pleased with Moon’s response even before she’s given it.
Moon straightens slightly, wrestling with an uncomfortable tension in her gut. Eclipsa’s smile only deepens. Her expression is quiet, attentive, almost affectionate.
“Don’t get too excited,” Moon says, pretending like she doesn’t notice. “There isn’t much more. Of interest, that is.”
“I’m certain that’s not true. Tell me— what did you like about the poem?”
“The original, or your version?”
Eclipsa shrugs. “Both.”
Moon represses a sigh and glances down at the page again. “I think the pudding is cool enough now.”
She’s about to stand up when Eclipsa beats her to it.
“I’ll get it.” She touches Moon’s shoulder as she brushes past her.
Moon closes the book, deciding that this is her cue to make an exit, but before she can get up there is a bowl of chocolate pudding in front of her. Before long, Eclipsa is sitting across from her again, trying to cool a spoonful of pudding with her breath.
“Oh, Moon.” Eclipsa slumps back into her chair, sliding down dramatically as she swallows her first spoonful. She quickly reaches for another bite. “That is remarkable.”
Moon chuckles. “It’s just something I whipped up. If you like it that much then I suppose I’ll have to make you something actually decent sometime.”
“God, yes. Please.” Eclipsa leans forward over the bowl so as to better shovel it into her mouth. “Then again, maybe you shouldn’t. If you made me caramel chocolates that tasted anything near as good as this then I think I may fall in love with you on the spot.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Moon chuckles, her heart logging away the caramel detail despite herself. “I’m glad you like it,” she adds quietly, as she takes a bite herself.
“It’s the perfect nightmare remedy,” Eclipsa says.
“Yes, it is.” Moon pauses. “My mother…” she trails off, shaking her head. “Never mind.”
“What is it?”
Moon shrugs into her bowl. “She had a catchphrase. ‘There’s nothing a trip to the kitchen can’t fix.’” She chuckles softly. “She was rarely wrong”
Eclipsa laughs. “That sounds like fun, being whisked away to the kitchen for every problem.”
Moon hums. “It was,” she says quietly. Then, after a bite of pudding— “You had a nightmare?”
Eclipsa nods, covering her mouth with her hand as she licks some chocolate off her lips. “I did. Third night in a row. I decided I needed to do something to take back control.” She chuckles. “Hence the pudding.”
“Right. Well, I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay. Unless you’re the one giving me nightmares.”
Moon chuckles. “I’m not.”
“Okay then.” Eclipsa smiles. “So, what are you doing up?”
“Nightmare.”
“Ah. What was it?”
Moon squints at her, then stares pointedly into her bowl.
“Sorry. I don’t mean to pry.”
“Yes you do.”
Eclipsa chuckles. “Hm. I suppose I do.” She pauses for a bite of pudding. “Mine was about my daughter. They’re usually about her.”
Moon looks up. “I’m sorry.”
“Me too.”
Before she can think of a reason not to, Moon lays her hand palm-up on the table. Eclipsa smiles sadly and takes it without hesitation. Moon smiles back.
“Oh! Queen Moon, my apologies, I didn’t know you were awake.”
Moon pulls her hand away instantly, as though she’d been caught with something. A servant stands in the doorway, clearly just out of bed, hair tousled, one pant leg stuck halfway up their calf.
“No, that’s alright, May,” Moon says. ”Do you need something?”
“I just came for a snack,” the servant says sheepishly, ”but I can come back la—“
“Want some pudding?” Eclipsa’s chair skids backwards as she moves to the stove. “Queen Moon made some. There’s extra.”
“Oh, um…” the servant trails off, eyeing Moon.
“Have some,” Moon says, waving her hand. “The leftovers are for you all, anyway.”
The servant grins as Eclipsa passes them a bowl. “Thank you!”
Moon smiles slightly. The servant bows before leaving. Then Moon gathers her and Eclipsa’s empty bowls and takes them to the sink. Eclipsa leans against the counter, watching her pump soap.
“Thank you for the pudding,” Eclipsa says. “You saved my night.”
Moon tries to focus on the dishes instead of Eclipsa’s relentless gaze. “You’re welcome.”
“Maybe I should burn pudding more often.” The suggestiveness in her tone is bolder now.
Moon rolls her eyes. “Please, don’t.”
“I suppose I don’t have to, as long as you promise to cook for me again sometime. Oh! I’ll even write you poems in return.”
As she rinses soap from the dishes, Moon can’t help but smile at the idea. She lets herself imagine it, trading a box of carefully crafted caramel chocolates for a page or two of handwritten poetry. Tucking it away for later and pulling it out at night, when the things she keeps for herself are finally, briefly hers.
She sets the dishes on the drying rack, and Eclipsa dries them with a towel and puts them away. Afterwards, as she dries her hands, she notices Eclipsa watching her again. She rolls her eyes as she puts the leftover pudding in the fridge.
“Eclipsa,” she says, her back turned.
“Yes?”
“You keep staring at me.”
“Yes,” Eclipsa says easily.
Moon sighs, closing the fridge and turning back around. “Why?”
Eclipsa chuckles. “Because I like you.”
Moon pulls a concerned face. “I don’t know why you would.”
“I just think it’s interesting,” Eclipsa says, “How severe you pretend to be, when all the while you’re reading poetry and making pudding for sad people.”
“I’m not pretending,” Moon says, instinctually defensive. She glances away. “You’re not a sad person.”
“I was tonight, until you.”
Eclipsa steps closer, letting out an airy chuckle as she fluffs Moon’s bang. Then, unthinkably, she kisses Moon’s cheek.
Moon stands completely still, rigid as stone, her expression blank.
Eclipsa picks up the poetry book and holds it out to her. “Don’t forget this. I hope you’ll forgive me for defacing it.”
“I suppose… just this once,” Moon says, her voice quieter than she intends. “Well, good night.”
She holds the book to her chest and, with a quiet exhale, makes for the door.
“Moon?”
Moon winces, stops, and then turns back around.
“For the record, I don’t find you difficult to endure,” Eclipsa says, smiling softly. “Thanks again for the pudding.”
Moon offers a fragile smile. It breaks as soon as it appears. “Thanks for the poem,” she says. Then she nods once. “Good night, Eclipsa.”
“Good night, Moon. Sleep well.”
She walks slowly, thoughtfully down the hall, a flicker of something in her chest. Like the door to a little cage in her heart is cracked open, filling her again with that ‘ascending’ sort of sadness she is afraid to want, or even name— even in the privacy of night.
Back in the study, she opens the book again and connects the last two lines of Eclipsa’s poem with a curly bracket. Next to it, she writes:
Hope.