(A STORY OF AS-YET-UNDETERMINED LENGTH)
She liked to watch him sleep- the boy with the golden hair. He had this way of curling the corners of his mouth into a mischievous grin that made you just want to take a peek into his mind; see what was causing that devilish smirk.
In fact, it was that grin of his that caught her attention, that first time. She’d been shadow-casting, as she was wont to do throughout the long night hours, during which the mortals around her slept in order to keep up their strength.
As an immortal surrounded by mortals, she’d long ago learned to cherish the hushed, quiet hours of the night. The hours when the hustle and bustle of the mortal realm slowed to a snail’s pace, and the peeps of frogs and the chirps of crickets and dogs barking in the distance blended together in the darkness to become a unique, one of a kind symphony, never to be heard again, free for the hearing of anyone willing to listen. But no one ever did. Well, hardly anyone. She listened. And every once in a while, she would run across a mortal who listened, too. They seemed to sense who she was, what she was, even before the existence of immortals on planet Earth became common knowledge.
They used to follow her around in droves. She seemed to pick them up everywhere she went, like those little travel spoons the mortals used to be so fond of, a new one for every special place you visit. Mortals get miniature spoons, she got followers. Supplicants. Initiates. Worshipers. Groupies. The list could go on for quite a while. No matter what she does or where she goes; no matter how she has ever attempted to just ‘blend in’ with the mortals, in any century, she begins to attract an ‘entourage’ in a very short time.
So, the nights had become special to her- peaceful lulls in a mad, frothing sea of humanity. And she treasured them. But sometimes…
Sometimes the nights get lonely. Sometimes the quietness of the night works against her. The witching hour comes, and casts a spell of gloom and melancholy over her heart, and it’s those nights during which she turns to her loom.
Shadowcaster, she had named it.
Like a knight names the sword which protects him in battle. Her loom, her weaving, is the sword with which she fights the battle of madness. Each immortal is given a gift. A special talent with which they repel the Beconing Darkness; the ‘polite’ term for the descent into madness, to which all immortals eventually succomb, deciding to effectively cease their existence in this realm. But each immortal is given their own special, unique talent that allows them to siphon most of the madness into art, into their talent, and a path to finding solace, when they are struggling with the thought of existing one more day. Luna’s talent was loom weaving. As she wove, her spirit went to a special place. A place where she was able to see, in her mind’s eye, through mirrors.
A follower had asked her once what it was like, what she saw while shadowcasting. She had replied then that it was like looking through a window, into people’s dreams. Since then, thanks to the golden haired boy, she had come to understand her gift more fully. She had learned that there were, it seemed, limits to even her abilities.
That boy. That golden-haired minx of a child. The one with the secretive smile and mysterious dreams.
Mysterious even to her.
Because for the first time in ten million casts of her mind into the shadowy recesses of mortals’ dreams, she had found him.
The boy whose dreams she could not see.
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