The Lunarkin

Nature gives, yet some forget its cost.

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The moon’s glow absorbed the night sky in the village of Lunardom

A constant presence

Lunardom couldn’t recall what kept it there.

What kept it strong.

The villagers revelled in its beauty, then—

The sky opened in eerie silence.

No moon.

Or rising tides, with the pulse of its gravity.

But everything felt—wrong.

The night forgot itself--

Becoming restless—and so did the rest of the sleeping world.

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The forest near Lyra teemed with wildlife—not wild in the way we kne

Birds didn’t chirp—they whispered. Howls replaced the croak of frogs. Wolves sang—humanlike tones that crept up spines and froze them.

A silver glow teased the surfaces of mirrors and puddles—but it wasn’t the light of the moon.

But its mimic.

Lyra was out collecting firewood one afternoon when on her wrist—

A mark.

It moved.

Syncing with the rhythmic movements of something--

Unseen.

And so the path to the unknown opened—in ways that would unsettle and shape Lyra’s—and the forest’s core.

The shifting mark unnerved the typically stoic Lyra.

Who, ever the heroine, embarked on a quest to settle it.

Then, an old journal in the attic.

One with pages that told of—the Lunarkin.

Ancient guardians of the moon.

Her mind—and all she knew-unravelled like spools of tangled thread.

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Lyra followed the mark’s irresistible pull to the lake.

It, too, behaved erratically, rippling upward to the surface instead of outward, defying and reconstructing gravity.

Then, she caught sight of herself.

Not her.

But a creature of light and bone.

The guardian—or captor—of the Moon.

The being spoke, its voice thundering and gravelly.

“The Lunarkin have damaged the ancient tether beyond repair.” It intoned to the trembling girl.

“The void must have one descendant before it will be satisfied.”

The mark on Lyra’s arm spread—and pulled her.

Toward the water.

The void had made clear which descendant it wanted.

But the brave girl wasn’t about to let history repeat itself

With a quick, practiced flick of her wrist, she sliced off her palm.

And offered it to the omnipresent, sentient being.

Then, a petrifying burst of silver.

Shards flew.

The surrounding light did an upward pirouette, and—a new moon pieced itself against the dark skyline.

Lyra’s reflection—gone.

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The moon steadied itself in the night sky, its light now pale and flickering.

As if recalling its shattering.

Tides surged once more. Birds called with resounding chirps. Wolves howled, hailing the moon’s presence.

But their rhythm broke through the forest in distended fragments.

Nature’s poor mimicry of normalcy.

Lyra’s reflection was no more. But ripples formed in puddles at the sound of her name

The village cheered the moon’s return, welcoming it with feasts and dances—forgetting the girl who gave.

Beneath the surface of the lake, a gentle, silver shimmer, shaped in a palm.

Throbbing intently with the moon’s rise.

Paying what was due the Moon.

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The world continued, but lighter.

Lonelier.

The moon always graced Lunardom’s sky each October, but with a familiar face that took on its dim, sad glow.

Forgotten.

🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙⭐🌙

For Mikeydred's Octoberon challenge.