Silverlight Terrace arts

He could touch her, he thought, as she sat herself down, in that small space between them.

They beheld each other in silence, the huntsman and the moongirl, and he did not reach out to touch her. She held him with her eyes. He wondered, still, to the thoughts beneath. They spoke of resolve, intelligence, though she spoke no further.

This time, she was silent.

And this time, he would speak.

You are of Moonglow, his hushed voice ran out, still boyish and ill-fitting of his frame, though growing into itself, as the rest of him had already begun to do.