Just drabbling with astrology . . .
Put this in other because it feels too inconclusive to me to be a short story. =/ It feels more like a weird monologue.
Shadows meet him at every turn; darkness traces his form, a cape that consumes him piece by piece as the golden day fades into a narrowing horizon. All around him are tiny mirrors in the black blanket, each doing their best to press to his silver glow; but he pushes them away, settling into the dark fabric that explodes over the sky until the seams are nowhere to be seen.
Below him is a sleeping world speckled with the fallen shards. How deeply he envies their persistent glimmer; many who walk among the angelic lights look to the clouded sky and find him among the mist. Their eyes well with memories and they whisper on a lofty wind, “How beautiful.” And he looks back upon them and whispers on the still void, “How foolish.”
How he wishes his beauty could be his own; he longs to be half as brilliant as his cousin, the grand star who bathes their upturned faces in the warmth they crave. Those same luxurious beams strike his pale skin, twisting and bending until a drained ray can find its way to a chilled surface. A frown curves into the sky, and other nights a silent scream; what dull work he makes of these golden lances, he mourns. Just by his unforgiving touch, the flawless blades are reduced to wavering lines of gray.
His borrowed light seeks out all that is able to be found. It mingles with the swaying irises, repaints the greenery of the towering trees; it bobs atop the ocean waves, glides serenely across quiet lakes; it thrusts itself through exposed window panes and spills into expecting homes, the shadows manipulating each shaft into a portrait for the young imagination. The shrouded world marvels at his work, and yet he pays it little admiration.
He sits within a clear halo in the midnight sky, a halo that he allows no curious stars to enter. Only one orb of light does he allow into his lonely kingdom; she moves close to him very quickly, and goes away just as quickly. Just as the two are close enough to touch, she begins to drift away from him again. Why, he often wonders, must his dear Venus be so very far away? And when she has gone away, just where does she go? Surely even his fabricated glow is more a beacon than the relentless dark.
But even so, he awaits her return patiently. His dull light reaches to her, wherever she may be; no matter the shame he feels for its falsehoods, he will always assemble the path for her—the path back to him. Even if only for the smallest of glimpses, for her to share his forlorn halo is a gift to last until the last ember of the Sun has been extinguished. For, yes, even the saddened Moon, while frowning upon the world for much of his time, has a side that can also smile.
