Work Text:
Eclipsa tucks her blanket around her waist as she positions herself at the Rose Tower window. Her sketchbook is laid open on the wide stone ledge, next to a steaming cup of tea and a shoebox of pens and pencils. She plops a third sugar cube into her tea and stirs it clockwise. When the tea settles, it perfectly reflects the full moon, which hangs bigger and brighter than usual tonight. Luckily, the sky is completely clear, allowing the light of this supermoon to cast the entire garden in an ethereal, silver glow. The garden, and, of course, Eclipsa’s muse, who happens to come alive under moonlight.
Said muse is currently entering into view— right on time. It’s been two weeks now since Eclipsa first caught a glimpse of Moon on her nighttime stroll and, unsurprisingly, she soon discovered that these after-dark walks in the garden are part of Moon’s nightly routine. She’s not one for spontaneity, certainly. It seems that nearly every move is carefully planned and prepared for, her every action perfectly in time with the hands of the clock.
There’s something different about Moon at night, on these walks. She wears her satin slip dress under a pale blue robe, her skin cleared of the day’s makeup to reveal a clean, glistening complexion. And her hair— impossibly long, glossy, and shining in the moonlight— is down, brushed smooth and laying perfectly over her shoulders. Her posture, although always poised, seems softer, her shoulders less tensed, her walk slower, less intent, more graceful and gliding.
Eclipsa sips her tea, her chin in her hand as she watches Moon take a deep breath in front of a rose bush in full bloom. She isn’t smelling the flowers. Just breathing, her chest rising and falling in time with her inhales and exhales. Eclipsa counts the length of each breath, wondering if Moon is counting, too. Then she flips through her sketchbook, briefly glancing at her last few sketches of Moon, some of which capture her in front of that exact bush. She grabs a graphite pencil and makes an adjustment to one of the drawings, a bit of movement to her hair inspired by the gentle breeze tonight. She flips to a blank page after that and leans her forearms over it as she sips her tea and watches Moon for a few minutes.
In the garden, Moon plucks a leaf from one of the rose stems and rolls it between her fingers as she continues walking. The moonlight creates a halo effect over the crown of her head, making her blue hair shine silver. She chews her lip as she walks, and even from up in her tower Eclipsa can tell that she’s wearing the poor leaf out so much the chlorophyll will surely turn her fingers green.
She might feel like she’s crossing a line, watching her like this, but it’s not like she’s hiding, and she’s got to take her joys where she can get them these days. Besides, though they’ve yet to meet each other’s gazes, Eclipsa is almost certain Moon knows that she sits at the window at this time. And anyway, if she doesn’t, all she’d have to do is look up.
In the center of the rose garden, hidden from the castle’s perspective by hedges but perfectly within Eclipsa’s line of sight, Moon surprises her by laying down in the middle of a little clearing half-mooned by hedges and rose bushes. There is a stone bench, but she ignores it, laying flat on her back instead, her hair fanned out in the grass.
Eclipsa sits up and starts sketching. She captures the slight slip of Moon’s robe exposing an inch of her shoulder, her slender neck. One arm is crooked at the elbow at nearly ninety degrees, hand palm up in the grass near her head. The other is at her side, fingers twisting and plucking at the grass growing there.
She looks younger like this, cradled by the ground. Her blue eyes look straight up at the sky, two moons facing each other, reflecting each other’s glow, a stream of light passing between them like consciousness. It’s as though they speak a language only the two of them can know, sharing secrets in shining whispers.
What would she be saying, if she could? What are the thoughts flitting between plucks of grass, through leaves ruined to a pulp, behind full-moon eyes? Maybe she’s thinking about her daughter, that wild, wonderful mess of a princess Eclipsa has grown so fond of. She’s certainly a treat to have around, but a control-freak like Moon would have her hands full worrying over a girl like that. Or maybe she’s thinking about Eclipsa, about their unsanctioned trip to the archives, about what they discovered, about the lies she was told by the Magical High Commission, and the lies she’s told herself. Or, perhaps she’s thinking about something else. Maybe she has hopes, wishes, dreams. Maybe that’s what she and the moon have been talking about.
Eclipsa fills the page with sketches. A full scene in the center demonstrating the exaggerated closeness of the full moon to Moon’s resting place. A close up of the ruined leaf in one corner of the page. A more detailed examination of her eyes at another corner. A close up of her hand at the bottom. She pauses, flexing her hands, and takes a sip of tea.
The tea isn’t hot anymore, and the sugar has settled to the bottom. Eclipsa swirls it, watching the woman in the garden blink, and breathe, and twirl blades of grass. It’s only observation, at least that’s what she’s been telling herself. A study of queendom after hours, an objective admiration for the softening of restraint and discipline under moonlight.
But the lie wilts even as it sprouts. There is a pang that accompanies this habit, an ache that tells her it’s more than mere observation. She feels it in every small interaction, every minuscule movement of Moon’s that reveals another inch of her light. Every time they make eye contact from afar, Eclipsa feels an urgency hold her breath, this need to stay still and wait to see which kind of moment it will be. Will it be fleeting and sharp, ending without acknowledgement? Or will it be the kind of moment where Moon softens just a touch, graces her with one of those real smiles, the small ones that reach her eyes? Those moments seem to last a lifetime, and Eclipsa tries to stretch every microsecond, searching the rare unguarded depth in Moon’s eyes for as long as she’s allowed.
Looking for what, she doesn’t know. For anything, really. Anything, everything. She just wants more, whatever that entails, because it isn’t observation that traps her where she stands whenever Moon’s gaze finds her, that brings her to the window night after night.
Eclipsa smudges a line of graphite with her thumb, softening the corner of Moon’s eye. Down below, Moon’s eyes have closed, and her knees have a slight bend to them now. She seems to have sunken deeper into the ground, blades of grass peeking up between the fingers resting near her head. Her other hand has stilled its pursuit of plucking and pinching at the grass, gone limp at her side. Her breathes come slow and even, and her head is tilted to the side, her lips slightly parted.
She’s fallen asleep.
Eclipsa smiles to herself, leaning forward with her chin in her hand. She chuckles softly, wishing, despite herself, that she was there with her, if only to brush the hair from her forehead as the breeze moves it out of place. Her heart, though, has not waited for an invitation, and is already down there, tracing her eyelashes and counting how many blades of grass she’s ruined.
Part of her, now, feels that this should mark the end of the evening, that she should leave the window now, give Moon her privacy in sleep. She thinks this, but doesn’t move. With each second that passes, she tells herself: the next one. She lets out a small, heavy breath, the ache in her chest growing— just slightly, just enough to notice.
Then, yellow light spills into the courtyard as a castle door is opened. Someone emerges, and Eclipsa soon recognizes River, all broad shoulders and curly beard, in his sleepwear. He follows the same path Moon took through the garden, tracing her steps as if he, too, had been watching. When he finds her, he smiles, his chest popping with a chuckle. He kneels beside her, his large hands seeming even bigger next to her delicate features as he gently brushes her hair back, whispering something.
Moon flinches, but she doesn’t wake up. River smiles, his eyes shining with fondness, and carefully scoops her into his arms. Her head leans against his shoulder, her hair reflecting the moonlight like a mirror as it moves. Her hand instinctively finds its grip on his shirt.
As he walks back, River looks up. Their eyes meet instantly. Eclipsa looks at him over the rim of her cup as she downs the last sugary swig of her tea, unwilling to be the first to look away. River just nods, adjusting his hold of Moon, and continues inside.
The door closes behind River with a muted thud, swallowing the yellow light with it, and the garden settles back into silver stillness. For a moment, Eclipsa sits just as still. She studies the imprint Moon left in the grass, the faint disturbance where her head had rested, as if the earth itself is reluctant to let her go. The ache in her chest isn’t dramatic or sharp; it hums low and constant, like a truth settling into place. She’s always been drawn to intensity, to bright, beautiful messes impossible to ignore in all their chaos. But this kind of intensity is different. This, the quiet potency of pale moonlight, it’s patient, distant, perhaps entirely unreachable. And still she finds herself turning toward it night after night.
She closes her sketchbook gently, fingertips lingering over the graphite lines of Moon’s hand. Longing, she thinks, like fascination, like obsession, like love, is such a complicated, yet cathartic thing. It does not promise fulfillment, but it can always be held— like a cup of tea gone cold, like a secret kept in the dark. She rises from the window at last, letting the blanket slip from her lap as she pulls the shutters closed.
Until tomorrow.