The Spirit shrank slightly before nodding. Spirits deserved love too. So I embraced it, closed my eyes, and waited for the inevitable.
I saw a boy, barefoot in the mossy forest. Bruises covered him. His clothes hung loose, his hair falling in ragged strands that hid eyes far too old for his age. Loneliness clung to him like fog.
The scene shifted, dissolving like smoke in the wind, and the boy became a man. An older Arawn, with the long hair he wore in Zelda’s time, stood in the same forest. But the forest was no longer alive. With every step he took, the vibrant greens withered. He dragged shadows behind him, and each step made the forest more dead. There were no bruises on his skin anymore, but he was bleeding all the same. A hidden pain, buried deep, leaking out as a dark rage burning in his gaze.
I inhaled sharply, as if the pain I had seen had become my own. My arms dropped, releasing the Spirit, and I swayed backward. Moths burst forth, whirling into the sky in a rain of shimmering wings. A true downpour of butterflies. I shielded my eyes with one hand, the other groping instinctively for support. That was when a warm, firm grip closed around my fingers.
I turned, and he was there.
Arawn, clad in princely attire of noble ash and faded violet, as though tailored by a seamstress with too much melancholy. Silver embroidery on his shoulders caught just enough of the moonlight to outline the sharpness of his face. This time, he had not sawn down his horns. They rose like a crown forged of shadow.
“I would have come sooner,” he began in a low voice. “But… I didn’t know what to wear. As trivial as it may sound. I’m sorry it took me so long to understand.”
I blinked. Words failed me, leaving only the pounding crash of my heart in reply.
“You’re floating.”
He smiled, and I dropped my gaze. I really was floating above the field of violets. His, meanwhile, lingered on my face—precisely on the place where a single crystalline tear had traced my cheek. It wasn’t sadness. It was something deeper, raw, and luminous. As if a piece of his heart, through the Spirits, had opened itself to me.
“Was that me?” he asked. “Am I the one who made you cry?”
He brushed the crystalline tear away with his thumb and studied it as though considering keeping it. His other gloved hand was still imprisoned in mine, a silent waltz.
“I’m not sad.” I stretched my fingers so one of the moths could land on my hand. “On the contrary.”
“I came to say something important.” He cleared his throat, almost awkwardly. The moths scattered into the night. “But I don’t want to. I’m selfish, Lempicka.”
I burst out laughing. “I know.”
He lifted his brows slightly. He certainly hadn’t expected me to agree so quickly.
“Individualistic, perhaps, then,” he corrected, swallowing. “I just wanted… For the first time in my life, I think I want to live something....” He swallowed again, as if saying it aloud cost him dearly. “Tonight, I want to pretend I’m just a human. With you.”
I pressed my lips together. Pretending he was only a boy, too beautiful for his own good, who made my heart pound. A boy who would stay at my side. That he and I weren’t cursed. Tonight, I was willing to lie—for him to be mine, just once.
“So, it’s like a date? I’ve always wondered why village girls swore by those.”
Arawn let out a laugh, a dangerous smile curving across his sharp features. “A date? If that’s what you want to call it. I fear I lack experience, but I’ll try not to be too mediocre.”
He guided me toward the lake, pulling out his lighter. My pulse trembled with impatience, but there wasn’t a single charm around it. I swallowed. He lit it. A butterfly of mist burst forth,dove toward me, and circled. Arawn’s hand found mine, and he slipped the lighter into it as if entrusting me with a secret.
“What are you?—”
He silenced me with a look, closing my fingers around his. My eyes widened. He wore the charm I had given him. It was there, coiled around his wrist.
“I don’t need it anymore. The only charm I need is yours.”
He whispered an incantation. The lighter shimmered and transformed. A ring now rested in my palm. Delicate golden branches and leaves encircled a citrine stone cut in the shape of an apple. Tiny diamond flecks danced around the edges, like drops of dew.
“I hope I guessed your size,” he said, slipping the ring onto my finger with a disconcerting natural ease. “If you press the apple, then…” He did so, and the mist butterfly emerged. “I’ll be with you.”
My breath caught. My gaze clung to the ring, too perfect, too magical to be real. But why did it feel like farewell?
“After all, it is tradition to give something meaningful at the ceremony to someone one… tolerates. And after the confection you made me?—”
“You liked it?” I asked, my voice still dazed.
“I sealed it under several protective enchantments. Because the thought of anyone else touching it—even me—was unbearable. Lempicka?”
