The Frozen Moon - By J.D. Swinn Page 0,14
forced to socialize.
No one noticed when she slipped out the door.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: EVENING ESCAPE
The night was lightly overcast, and the moon was high in the sky. It shone brightly, casting its light onto the scene, bathing it in the pale silver. It seemed to own the sky tonight, bending its iridescent light off of the thin clouds around it into an eerie halo. This night held one of the rare occasions when the luminous circle around the moon captured the spectrum in its entirety, a ring of color. At the center of the silver courtyard, there was a small reflection pool, hemmed with large stone benches that appeared to be much older than she. Vividly green moss covered the gently sloping banks of the pond, whispering stories of disuse, dappled here and there with small wildflowers. The moon’s image in the pool reminded her of the Moon Faeries’ eternal ice, and the moonbeams trapped inside. She filled her lungs with the cold air as if these were the last breaths she would ever take. She heard footsteps behind her; they were trying to remain silent. She sensed the boy the second he was in the courtyard. Nonetheless, he still moved noiselessly across the lawn, coming nearer with each second. The dark figure took a seat next to her on the smooth stone bench, not speaking. Her lack of surprise or acknowledgement must have told him that she had sensed his arrival.
“Are you okay?” asked Cal. “I saw you leave alone, and I just wasn’t sure what happened.” Nameh didn’t answer him, she was relishing one last moment of silence with the Night. He continued a bit nervously through the silence. “Are you crying?” he asked timidly. She nearly laughed at how unprepared to deal with the situation he would have been if she were. Aloud, she did give a small laugh, turning to face him.
“That’s sweet,” she began with little emotion, “but I don’t really cry.” She reached up and pulled the three silver pins out of her hair, releasing the strands from their unhappy bondage. It fell in waves around her face, not the usual straight, because of the way it had been held for so long. The shelter of it was comforting, her face no longer completely exposed. She turned to face him; he appeared so innocent and fragile. His parents must have been Markbearers, and sheltered him from battle, she thought. She couldn’t remember a time when she felt that way, safe and secure, that there would always be someone to protect her. There had never been anyone but herself to keep her from death’s clawing grip. She was mildly surprised to see genuine concern reflecting in his dark eyes; perhaps he was one of those people who cared too much too quickly.
“You don’t cry ever?” he asked interrogatively, raising an eyebrow.
“Not in at least two years. Not since I decided it was stupid; it accomplishes nothing and exposes weakness.” She thrust her shoulders back slightly in a display of assuredness; these were words that she truly believed. Aside from that, why cry when there’s no one to dry your tears?
“That’s cool, I guess.”
“I probably seem dreadfully callous to you, don’t I?” she asked with a smile.
“Not callous, just like…you were forced to grow up.” He paused thoughtfully. “But I don’t think you’re as serious as you seem.”
“Oh?”
“No, I don’t think you are.” The corners of his lips were turned up as they usually were, and his eyes wide as if in wonder at the world.
“So maybe I’m not as mature as I may come off. In fact, I’m quite immature under all the battle gear I’m usually wearing. Sometimes I still like to laugh until it hurts, and play with fire, and push all of the buttons on elevators. There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” He laughed at the sidelong look she gave him with her list. Lingering traces of their laughs rang through the comfortable silence that now hung in the air. “So what do you like to do?” she asked easily.
“Listen to music, hang out with my friends, go on my computer…” he trailed off, thinking.
“Do you play any sports?”
“No, I’m not exactly an athletic kind of guy.” She laughed appreciatively.
“I wouldn’t call myself athletic either.” In his responses, she found conformation to his sheltered life. It didn’t seem as though he got out often. She paused, weighing her next question in her mind; for once, actually considering how it may affect