how lucky we must be to breathe stardust

It can be said that Mistero is the root of the universe.

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After all, Mistero had once been the core of the Star Sphere when it had been whole—the piece that all other stars gravitated towards during the universe’s creation, the starting point of history. It is the heartbeat of their planetary system, the breath of fire that sparked motion amidst nothingness, mother to all living creatures. Nature finds ways to display their reverence across the stars: Bestian fauna coiling in ancient furls not unlike the ivies some villages based their dances from, Sirenese birdsongs echoing the skies as they mimic sacred chants, Laman dawns shrouded in the same veils as the Great Temple, Alban rains that fall as gently as ceremonial bells, Eternian breezes that draw forgotten patterns in the sand. Practices that had once originated in Mistero have grown into their own traditions, tessellating into various possibilities after leaving behind a childhood of wholeness, a cosmic order.

 

Each beauty nestled within the arms of each star, each of the wonders and glories across the celestial bodies people call their homes—they all pale in comparison to one thing.  

 

Their Great Temple is a treasure crowned by a white mountain range, far from any villages or other residential areas. It is the perfect place for meditation, for prayer, for learning. Should one cultivate their mind and spirit enough, they can learn to listen to the faint voice of the planet. Though, in recent days, there is a new life that gently thrums throughout the temple grounds: pleasantly mundane symphonies that are strung together from the sounds of young disciples milling around the halls, priests offering their daily worship, time-worn texts being flipped through by foreign scholars, cutlery from the mess hall where diaspora have amassed in search for safe haven and warm food, temple elders congregating to discuss small renovations to bolster the building’s structure—

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—Vega’s laugh.

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It is a rare melody, a measured bar of soft tones, that Capella hasn’t heard in over a millennium. But today, as the Protector’s dutiful attendant undutifully sneaks him away after completing his daily routine, Vega is more than amenable to give Capella a virtuosic performance as the twinkling chimes spill from his lips like the waterfalls that hide their secret passage out of the temple grounds.

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“Carefully, my lord, press close to the wall,” Capella cautions as they reach the tumbling sheets cascading down from the heavens. “The path is slim—here, hold my hand.”

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Warmth spreads throughout Capella’s chest as Vega unwaveringly fits their hands together, the initial proprietary curl slowly turning into a lattice of fingers snugly woven as they move behind the curtain of water. Behind that curtain, they shed the roles of liege and servant like outer robes unfit for bedchambers. Instead, they’re just young men from what used to be the Fifth and Sixth Wards of the Central Region: spry, unbound, and navigating through the pink of their first love.

 

Capella leads him through the thick of the mountain with a gentle touch, a leisurely pace set to showcase the subtle elegance of the star they live in. The soft facets of the rock tunnel they walk through with its faintly colored shimmers, the swathes of silken leaves that canopy overhead once the tunnel escorts them to a small forest, the strokes of sunset beginning to wash over the sky as they finally make it to the shore of a hidden beach.

 

“It’s beautiful,” Vega says, eyes filling with a lost childlike wonder. Capella squeezes that fair hand just a little tighter. How long has it been since this person had bore witness to a sight outside the temples? How long has it been since his lord had the luxury of being just Vega rather than the Protector? Even now, with no Star Sphere to guard, his beloved’s legacy supersedes the present: they continue to remember the story of the slumbering martyr while Vega himself stands in the flesh before his fellow countrymen. “It’s like a dream, Capella. How do you know of such a place?”  

 

“King Fang’s ancestor told me of it very long ago,” Capella answers. A small smile quirks onto his face at a memory. “That bloodline truly has a penchant for sneaking off to find adventure. He was the first to find this place and it had been a popular spot for more willful disciples to run to in their free time. It caused no end of trouble for the senior priests.”

 

That precious laugh rings once more, clearer than the crashing of ocean waves. “I can only imagine. It certainly sounds like something he would do.”

 

Whispers of the day’s breeze caress their skin as they follow the sun to its slow slumber. Like an attentive lover, Capella helps slip off Vega’s sandals as his liege rucks up his robes enough to display his calves before girding the cloth above his knees. Capella then discards his outer robe completely before removing his boots and folding the gem of his trousers. By the time he’s finished, he finds Vega firmly rooted in place, focused on his toes flexing in the sand.

Capella’s heart grows fond. “The sensation feels nice, doesn’t it?”

 

“Quite nice, indeed,” Vega replies with an easy smile as the tip of one foot draws lazy yet crisp lines, characters forming a short verse from a famous Misteran panegyric, written in an obsolete dialect: How lucky we must be to breathe stardust.

 

He will guard these moments greedily—for the thousand years that have been stolen from them, Capella will create thousands of more memories to fill the gap and ease the burden of guilt he knows Vega still bears. Capella will give Vega everything he desires, everything he deserves. His heart, his life, his devotion. All that and more.

 

“May we go to the shore?”  

 

All the little things, too.

 

“It is your evening out,” Capella says, holding out his hand for Vega to take. “We may do as you please.”

 

With twined fingers, he escorts Vega to the water. The waves eagerly lap at slender ankles as if Vega is the moon they are pulled by, nearly toppling Vega over from the sheer force of their excitement. Capella naturally steadies him with an arm wrapped around his shoulders, a hand pressed to Vega’s side. For his part, Vega looks determined—he leaves the strength of Capella’s arms and walks towards the coming tide once more.

 

The waves embrace Vega’s lower legs, making him laugh in victory. “Capella, come here. The air has been warm and heavy as of late, but the water will cool your body and refresh your spirit.”

 

Capella smiles. “My lord is most considerate.”

 

“Ah, but I’m not your lord right now, am I?”

 

“This is true.” He wastes no time in bridging the distance between them, wrapping his arms around Vega’s waist and pressing a kiss against pearl threads. “Then, allow me to say that my Vega is most considerate. And kind. And cute. And—”

 

A pink blossom bursts onto Vega’s cheeks. “Stop, stop, say no more. You know I’m weak to flattery, especially coming from you.”

 

“As my vows dictate, I speak no empty words,” Capella says between feather-light kisses. His lips draw constellations wherever they can reach, as many as he can. “All of it is true. My Vega is virtuous, beautiful—”

 

“Capella—!”

 

They both get swallowed by a particularly enthusiastic wave, toppling over one another as the sand is pulled from beneath their feet.  

 

The sea swiftly pulls the waters back to reveal the Protector and his dutiful attendant, both completely drenched with clumps of sand sticking to their clothes and hair. In the soft glow of a sleepy sun, Capella and Vega can’t help but laugh.

 

There is a time for them to unstick themselves from one another, to get up from the wet sands of the hidden beach. There is a time to try and dry their robes as best as they can, dust the fine grains off white and green silks. There is a time to quietly navigate back through the mountain tunnel, past the waterfall, into the temple grounds. There is a time to bribe the night guards, the chatty young disciples, the dedicated scholars still roaming the halls into silence with favors or small tokens or food. There is a time for them to separate for the evening, giving one last look to each other before the routine of Protector and attendant resume in the morning.

 

Now is not that time.

 

It can be said that Mistero is the root of the universe. Everything that is can be traced back to their fair star. The same can be said about Capella’s universe: everything that matters—all that is beautiful and beyond compare—lies in Mistero, in a secret place only known to two, in his embrace.

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Oh, how lucky Capella must be to hold the galaxy the stars have woven in his arms, to steal the stardust from his breath with each kiss.