Grace Feng

Of Love and War

The moon clears the last wisps of cloud drifting near the horizon and breaks through the tangle of branches overhead, shining silver light into the clearing of the woods. Mirion lies on his back, one arm thrown over his head and the other on top of layers of silk robes, staring straight up at the sky, listening to the quiet crystalline sound of water in the brook, and the louder, unearthly sound of voices drifting on the wind, mingled tenors and altos. He raises one hand and squints his other eye shut, covering the moon with his thumb and staring at the stars, watching as they wheel overhead in their slow dance.