Silverlight Terrace arts

Moongirl did not turn away.

Rather, she did not move.

Melaneus was careful in his advance. Slow, and patient. Treating her like he imagined he might treat a fawn, but without the intent of slaughter.

She spoke again that melody of language — commanding, and strong, though he did not forget the tremble that had accompanied her first voice. And then, she drew nearer.

He stopped when they were but a hair breadth apart. Here he could see the sun fire that touched her ears, her face. Here he decided her eyes were not dandelions, but sunfire too.

And what would she see in him? He’d only ever had his paws to look at, dark and ruddy, and he had never cared enough to ask his parents the colours of the rest of him. Were his eyes a cloudless sky, like he knew his mother’s to be? Or were his sunfire too?

He had never cared before, but now, he felt self-conscious, and he considered what he might say to her. But words were like names: once given, they could not be taken back. Melaneus did not know if he had any yet to give her, only knew he wanted to find one - even one! - so he waited, too, for his own language to come.