_{Night in the Deadfire is absolutely spectacular.}

_{Millions upon thousands of stars wheel high above in the firmament, clustered in places like fistfuls of diamonds, in yet others cast far away from one another, lonely strangers on lonely islands, adrift in the dark. Aloth is no great astronomer—his talents lie in page and ink, grimoire and study; and those are talents he cannot claim to have come by thanks to natural aptitude, but rather work, trial and tears. Very many tears. He cried often, as a boy. Hard, and often. Sometimes, he feels it would have been better to have let that particular habit continue—he feels overwrought enough to burst, then and now, but he can’t bring himself to weep. Not any longer.}

_{The beach stretches out before him in a long, sandy strip; it’s tranquil tonight, cloudless, with only a faint breeze coming in from the north. Pleasant, but hot. Hot enough that he’s not wearing his customary leather bracers, or his boots, and he’s taken great care to gather the sweep of his hair into a tail at the base of his neck. It helps, some, with the humidity. He’s already left a good couple of yards of wet footprints behind, a strand of passage that is being softly washed away by the lapping waves. It’s not hard to see where he’s going. Moonlight, bright and silver, guides his way.}

_{The Watcher is meditating on a boulder jutting out of the sand, a great igneous hunk of layered greys and blacks, her ebony quarterstaff laid across her lap. He can see the gentle phosphorescence of her horns and markings from a good distance; little motes of blue, mixed indigos and cobalt, winking in and out existence all around her, like so many fireflies—beautiful and unusual. He tries to be quiet, even though he knows she’s most likely been aware of his approach since he left the camp (and Edér’s horrific snoring) behind ten minutes ago.}

_{True to form, the minute he comes to stand by the sloping side of the boulder, Ileána’s eyes open, two points of pearly light in the gloom. She truly is something else entirely under a full moon.}

_{She smiles at him, patting at the space by her.}

_{He clambers up at her invitation, displaying a considerable lack of grace—he sometimes wishes he could move as sinuously as she does, with such physical ease, but he knows he’s not a man with the temperament for monkhood. It’s not a discipline painlessly earned, either: he can see that by the myriad of scars, thin and thick, spanning her arms, her chest, even the tops of her thighs. He used to be embarrassed of his own scars, when he was younger, though he didn’t have many before coming to Eora—the ones on his wrists, usually hidden by the clasp of his bracers, were his first shame. His first real failure.}

_{It isn’t unheard of for little wizards to earn a scalding or two when they’re trying out new spells, learning new formulae; but mediocrity had not been acceptable in the Corfiser household, under the critical eye of Father, and the burns had not been allowed to heal properly—as a reminder. Many years passed before going barehanded did not feel like disobedience to an absent, malevolent force.} 

_{Yes, they are such different people, him and her. But it’s alright. It’s truly alright.}

_{Ileána doesn’t say anything as he settles himself properly, crossing his legs, just watches him. When he’s done fidgeting, she reaches out to him, tangling their fingers together. She lifts their linked hands, and while he looks on, kisses the pale pinched skin of the scar on his left wrist. The tissue there is softer, more sensitized, and he feels every brush of her cool breath. He squeezes back, returning her smile, his heart fond and full.}

_{He doesn’t have to say anything, or explain himself. Not with her.}

_{She rests her head on his shoulder, the fine brush of her turquoise hair tickling at his cheek. It’s been months since they first decided to explore this lovely new thing between them, and her being this close still makes his blood hum. He hooks his other arm around her waist, pulling her closer, glad for the privacy their distance from camp affords them. At a time like this, he can forget that they’re depended on to save the world by daylight. At a time like this, he can coax himself into thinking that they’re just what they seem to be: a man and a woman, taking in the moonrise over the mirrored surface of the ocean.}

_{Just… them.}