The Starlit Wound
The path the Maia left behind did not behave like a path.
It flowed.
Moonlight poured across leaves and roots, rippling with every step.
When Onorfin walked, it shimmered softly.
When DP followed, it sparked, brief flares of light, as if the road itself had nerves and DP kept stepping on them.
Above them, Percy circled, unimpressed.
“Fantastic. A glowing road. Nothing says ‘impending doom’ like being visible from orbit.”
Onorfin laughed, quiet and unguarded.
DP heard it. Felt it.
He slowed, brushing their shoulders together.
“Careful,” he murmured.
“You keep laughing like that and I’m going to kiss you again.”
Onorfin promptly tripped.
The deeper they went, the stranger the world became.
Trees rose taller, their bark veined with pale silver like living mithril.
The air thickened, not threatening, just waiting.
Even Percy landed on Onorfin’s shoulder, feathers tense.
“You two feel that?”
Onorfin nodded.
“Old power. Hurt.”
DP’s pupils widened, instincts sharpening.
“Something’s wounded.”
Beneath their feet, the earth pulsed.
The path ended in a clearing so still it felt held in breath.
At its center, the ground was split open, a narrow fissure glowing faintly with starlight, as if Arda itself had been cut and never quite healed.
Silver mist bled upward like a torn dream.
“A rift,” Onorfin whispered.
“A wound,” DP corrected, crouching at the edge.
Percy peered down.
“A hazard.”
Onorfin reached out. The mist curled toward his fingers, answering him.
A whisper rose from the depths.
Help… mend… remember…
DP straightened instantly.
“Something’s alive down there.”
“A remnant,” Onorfin said softly.
“Light that fell wrong. Or a dream that broke.”
Percy snorted.
“Or something with too many teeth. Just saying.”
“I’ve got enough teeth for all of us,” DP said.
“Romantically gross,” Percy muttered.
Light surged without warning.
DP hauled Onorfin back by the waist, instinctive and protective.
Onorfin did not object.
(He did, however, turn an impressive shade of red.)
From the fissure rose a figure of silver and starlight, a woman, tall and luminous, veiled in drifting constellations.
Not a Maia.
Something older, quieter.
A Tinuvael, a forgotten star-warden.
“You answered,” she said, voice echoing like distant nights.
“We came as called,” Onorfin replied.
DP stayed close, one hand near his dagger.
Percy stayed exactly where he was. Divinity had limits.
The Tinuvael lifted her hand, scattering constellations between the trees.
“A shard of the Void escaped the unlight,” she whispered.
“It moves beneath the roots. I am weakened. I cannot pursue it.”
“So you need someone with claws and poor decision-making skills,” DP said.
Her gaze lingered on him.
“Wolf-blood. Fire-hearted. Yes.”
Then she turned to Onorfin.
“Child of song and sorrow. The light listens to you still.”
Onorfin bowed his head.
“I will help.”
Percy raised a wing.
“I provide commentary.”
She inclined her head.
“A vital role.”
It flowed.
Moonlight poured across leaves and roots, rippling with every step.
When Onorfin walked, it shimmered softly.
When DP followed, it sparked, brief flares of light, as if the road itself had nerves and DP kept stepping on them.
Above them, Percy circled, unimpressed.
“Fantastic. A glowing road. Nothing says ‘impending doom’ like being visible from orbit.”
Onorfin laughed, quiet and unguarded.
DP heard it. Felt it.
He slowed, brushing their shoulders together.
“Careful,” he murmured.
“You keep laughing like that and I’m going to kiss you again.”
Onorfin promptly tripped.
The deeper they went, the stranger the world became.
Trees rose taller, their bark veined with pale silver like living mithril.
The air thickened, not threatening, just waiting.
Even Percy landed on Onorfin’s shoulder, feathers tense.
“You two feel that?”
Onorfin nodded.
“Old power. Hurt.”
DP’s pupils widened, instincts sharpening.
“Something’s wounded.”
Beneath their feet, the earth pulsed.
The path ended in a clearing so still it felt held in breath.
At its center, the ground was split open, a narrow fissure glowing faintly with starlight, as if Arda itself had been cut and never quite healed.
Silver mist bled upward like a torn dream.
“A rift,” Onorfin whispered.
“A wound,” DP corrected, crouching at the edge.
Percy peered down.
“A hazard.”
Onorfin reached out. The mist curled toward his fingers, answering him.
A whisper rose from the depths.
Help… mend… remember…
DP straightened instantly.
“Something’s alive down there.”
“A remnant,” Onorfin said softly.
“Light that fell wrong. Or a dream that broke.”
Percy snorted.
“Or something with too many teeth. Just saying.”
“I’ve got enough teeth for all of us,” DP said.
“Romantically gross,” Percy muttered.
Light surged without warning.
DP hauled Onorfin back by the waist, instinctive and protective.
Onorfin did not object.
(He did, however, turn an impressive shade of red.)
From the fissure rose a figure of silver and starlight, a woman, tall and luminous, veiled in drifting constellations.
Not a Maia.
Something older, quieter.
A Tinuvael, a forgotten star-warden.
“You answered,” she said, voice echoing like distant nights.
“We came as called,” Onorfin replied.
DP stayed close, one hand near his dagger.
Percy stayed exactly where he was. Divinity had limits.
The Tinuvael lifted her hand, scattering constellations between the trees.
“A shard of the Void escaped the unlight,” she whispered.
“It moves beneath the roots. I am weakened. I cannot pursue it.”
“So you need someone with claws and poor decision-making skills,” DP said.
Her gaze lingered on him.
“Wolf-blood. Fire-hearted. Yes.”
Then she turned to Onorfin.
“Child of song and sorrow. The light listens to you still.”
Onorfin bowed his head.
“I will help.”
Percy raised a wing.
“I provide commentary.”
She inclined her head.
“A vital role.”
The Tinuvael touched DP’s chest.
Starlight burned, then settled, sinking beneath his ribs like recognition.
She brushed Onorfin’s brow next.
Silver rippled through him, breath catching in sudden understanding.
“This will guide you,” she said.
“Together, you may mend what was torn.”
“And where exactly are we going?” Percy asked.
“The Valley of Black Glass.”
Onorfin stiffened.
“That place is forbidden.”
The Tinuvael smiled faintly.
“Then it is fortunate you do not care for rules.”
She dissolved into drifting silver petals.
The fissure closed, not healed, but resting.
Silence returned.
DP exhaled, star-spark warm beneath his ribs.
Onorfin stood beside him, silver hair haloed in moonlight.
“We’ve been chosen,” Onorfin said.
DP’s voice softened.
“So… have we chosen each other?”
Onorfin met his eyes.
“You already know.”
Percy swooped between them.
“Great. Destiny confirmed. Pack your bags, lovers, cosmic horror awaits.”
DP swatted at him.
“You’re lucky you’re cute.”
Onorfin laughed, helpless, bright.
And together, hands nearly touching,
they left the clearing
toward the Valley of Black Glass,
toward fate,
toward a story Arda itself had started writing
and now could not stop.
