Archive of Our Own ^beta

“You all tucked in? Alright, good. Ahem.” He clears the gravel from his throat and begins. 

“The Wolf Who Ensnared the Sun. In the damp forests not far from here, or perhaps on the other side of the world, there once lived a stand of pine trees, lush and tall. Within that stand was a sunlit clearing, and in that clearing a grand house. You won’t find traces of it these days. It got up and left of its own accord long ago—but that’s a tale for another time, my little sheep.”

“I already know that one,” Benjamin interrupts from his elbow. 

“You do?” Hadrian remarks, perched on the edge of his son’s bed. 

His son nods solemnly. “Momma told it to me last week! About how when Samothes got up to spread his creations all over Hieron, his house followed him.”

Hadrian chuckles, “Well then, you’re in a good place for tonight’s tale.” He starts again, “And in that house there lived a radiant young man, our god Samothes. He was often busy doing all the work of creation, crafting things to take care of all the creatures of Hieron. Do you remember what he made first?” 

“The sun!” 

“That’s right, the sun. And after he made the sun, he set to work making everything else we would need to live well. Tonight’s story is about something that happened to Samothes a very long time ago, before Velis even existed. Can you imagine that?” 

“Uh huh, it’d be lots of rocks and sand and trees.”

“Yeah, that, that sounds about right, little sheep. But I’m getting distracted.” He clears his throat and continues, his voice smooth and low, “In those same woods, far from the grand house where Samothes and Samol worked, there lived a wild wolf. The wolf was a creeping creature, a creature of the dark. She spent her days darting through the icy pines and hunting to sate her hunger. Remember, the warmth of Samothes had not yet reached her part of the forest.” 

“I thought Samothes was everywhere?” Benjamin pipes up.

“He is now, my little sheep, but this was a very long time ago. Samothes was still young, just like you’re still young, and his sun was new.” 

Benjamin hums and wiggles down under the covers, leaning his face into Hadrian’s leg. Hadrian places a hand on his forehead and resumes the old story. 

“One day, the wolf was walking through the forest, looking for a piece of prey to chase, when she caught a glimpse of a bright fire through the trees. Instead of being scared, she was curious, and so she crept through the trees until she came to the edge of a great pond full of fire.” 

Next to him, Benjamin breathes a little wow . 

“Without knowing, she’d walked right to the edge of the reach of Samothes’ sun, and the fire she saw was the bright light of the setting sun reflecting on the water. Until then, the wolf had been happy living in the shadows, for it was all she had ever known. But when she saw the pool full of bright sunlight, she decided she wanted it for herself. And so, after the sun had set and the fire faded, she slept on the edge of the pool all night long in the hopes the light would return.”

“In the morning, the wolf awoke to the sunlight coming through the trees. She stretched her long legs and turned to look out across the lake, and on the other side she saw a fire-haired young man.”

“Samothes!” Benjamin exclaims. 

Hadrian nods, “Yes, Samothes. But Samothes didn’t see the wolf, who was still hidden in the trees. And the wolf watched as he pulled tools off his belt and set up to work. Now what do you think he was doing?” 

Benjamin furrows his brow and focuses hard, and Hadrian keeps stroking his hand across his son’s forehead. His son has grown so much since he last saw him. After a few seconds, Benjamin offers, “building a boat?” 

“That’s a great guess! Samothes built a lot of boats. But no, this time Samothes was pulling the sun down from the sky so he could work on it. The wolf watched as Samothes drew down the sun, closer and closer, and the forest got darker and darker, until he was holding the sun in the palm of his hand.” 

“The wolf, seeing all the light of the sun in Samothes’ palm, decided she wanted that light for herself. But she could see that Samothes was powerful, and so she knew she had to be crafty. In the darkness of the forest, she collected her own fur and wove it into a net strong enough to hold the sun. The net in her mouth, she crept along the trees around the edge of the pond until she was right behind Samothes, who was still hard at work on the sun. And then in a flash, she threw the net over his head and bit the sun right out of his hand! Samothes tried to grab the wolf’s tail as she bolted by him, but with the net in his way he was too slow, and so the wolf ran off with the sun held tight in her jaw. 

“She ran and ran through the dark woods, the glow of the sun illuminating the trees around her. She kept looking behind her to see if Samothes was following her, but she couldn’t see him. When she reached her cave, she curled up with the sun, ready to bare her sharp fangs at the fire-haired young man if he showed up to reclaim his creation.” 

“But Samothes did not appear. The wolf waited and waited. Soon she found that she could not enjoy the sun. It was beautiful, yes, but it was not as beautiful as when it was in the sky, and she didn’t trust any creature to see it and not also be enchanted by its light. Since she didn’t want to leave the sun alone, she couldn’t hunt for food, and she got hungrier and hungrier. Soon the cave felt darker and colder and lonelier than it had ever felt before.” 

“After a long time in her cave, the wolf crept out and trodded back to the lake, carrying the sun in her mouth. As she got closer, the trees thinned, and she could see the fire-haired young man sitting on a tree stump by the water. He was waiting for her.” 

“You see, Samothes had been patient. He knew the wolf would not be satisfied with the sun and did not have the skills to put the sun back into the sky. He knew she was selfish and would want to keep it for herself. He knew she could learn to not be alone. And so he had waited by the lake until the wolf returned.” 

“The wolf trodded over to the fire-haired man and placed the sun at his feet. Samothes smiled and picked up the sun. With a firm motion of his hand, he sent it up into the sky, where it remains to this day. The wolf felt the warmth on her fur and knew she’d made the right choice to return the sun to Samothes, so he could share his creation with all the creatures of Hieron. Bright things are best shared.”

“And that’s the story of the wolf who ensnared the sun.” Benjamin gives a soft cheer and a louder yawn. Hadrian smiles down at him and brushes his forehead.

“What happened to the wolf?” 

Hadrian tilts his head. “You know, I’m not sure. That’s how stories go sometimes: we don’t always know the ending.” 

Benjamin nods and pulls the blankets up over his shoulders, looking pensive. Hadrian moves to stand up when Benjamin speaks again. “Dad, have you ever met a wolf?” 

Hadrian pauses. A wolf, no, but a cloak of wolf fur, still warm to the touch, and an outstretched hand, a proposal—he pushes the thought out of his mind. 

“I can’t say I have, my little sheep.” 

Benjamin sighs, “You’re good at telling stories, Dad.” 

“And you’re an excellent listener.” He pulls the covers up over Benjamin’s shoulder and kisses his forehead, whispering, “Good night, Benjamin.” 

“Night Dad,” Benjamin murmurs back. 

Hadrian picks up the candlestick from the dresser and closes the bedroom door behind him. As he passes the copper mirror in the hallway, his eye catches on a pale face. He turns and sees nothing but his own reflection in the flickering candle flame. He’s tired. That must be it. It’s been a long few months. With only a hint of concern, he continues down the hall.

Elsewhere, a golden-haired man turns away from his mirror and strolls out onto the balcony. He breathes in the salty ocean air and the jasmine blossoms, twirls the delicate golden band on his finger, and waits. 

Soon he feels the paladin’s presence down the hall. He drifts back to his chambers and stretches out over a chaise, arranging the skirts of his robe with a flick of his wrist. He reaches for a leather-bound volume and lets his eyes rest on the page, listening for the soft creak of the hinges. 

A few moments pass before Samot hears them, and then the heavy, tentative footsteps of Hadrian as he pauses two steps inside the room. Samot lifts his eyes from the book and feigns surprise. 

“Hadrian! How good it is to see you.” Hadrian startles and pivots towards him. He looks no less imposing In his plainclothes. The absence of his husband’s sigil on the paladin’s body makes it easier for Samot to briefly imagine his own mark on Hadrian’s breast. 

“I... Lord Samot, I... I didn’t expect...” Hadrian trails off. He glances at the room around him, stark shadows flickering in the candle glow. Samot closes his book and sets it down, then draws up his legs to rise from the chaise, the silk skirts of his robe shimmering just above his ankles. 

“You say you’ve had many unexpected encounters of late,” he begins, “but I believe two establishes a pattern. Or is it three?” 

Hadrian stares, his expression wary. “Did you bring me here?” he asks. His hesitation in addressing Samot is palpable. 

Samot smiles and takes a step towards Hadrian. “Hm... and why would I bring you here?” he lilts. 

Hadrian gestures outward, grasping at the air. He likes that about Hadrian, the way he speaks with his body when words fail him. How he says one thing and his body betrays another. The righteousness of his language, voice and sword arm alike. He’s not unlike his god, that stoic and frustrating and handsome man, turning his back to Samot and raising his hammer on the anvil in his own language of love and loss. 

He decides to throw Hadrian a bone. “You seem to have had me on your mind at the end of the night, after you told your son that wonderful story.” 

Hadrian’s brow furrows. “You were listening?” 

Samot smiles, not yet showing teeth. “Hadrian, I’m always listening. I have an eye in you, you see.” 

“On me?” 

“In you. I suppose you could say I see through you.” In both ways. He smirks. “It’s a personal story, in a sense. I enjoyed your telling.” 

He can see Hadrian’s mind assembling the pieces, watches him raise his hand to his shoulder for a white cloak that isn’t there, then lower it as if through water. “Are you,” he stammers, “are you the wolf in that story?” 

Samot’s lips part, the tips of his sharp canines catching his retreating lip. Oh, his paladin. “Many stories have been told about me, and I was once a wolf,” he pauses, considers, “but the myth has changed so much that I’m not sure that wolf is me any longer.” 

Hadrian nods, staring at Samot as if to summon the lupine resemblance from the contours of his robes and curls of his hair. “I thought...” he trails off, shifting his weight as if preparing to fight or flee, “I thought it was a she-wolf?” 

Samot can’t stop the laugh that bubbles up. Of all the inconsistencies between the mythic wolf and the god standing in front of him in the flesh for Hadrian to ask about. 

“Oh Hadrian. Does your faith not teach me as a shapeshifting god?” 

Hadrian shakes his head, murmuring, “My faith teaches only of the King-God Samothes.”

“Of course, of course,” Samot murmurs. How can he explain the rightness of physicality? The act of self-creation, melding your body until it no longer feels that the sharp jags of your joints might burst through your skin? How can he explain the divine alchemy of the self? 

“I took many forms in my search for the right one,” he begins, strolling towards the bookcase. “We gods are desire made material. If I resisted the impulse to shapeshift, I would undermine my fundamental being. Though in some ways,” he tilts his head, his golden hair flowing over his shoulder, “the transformation at hand in your confusion is perfectly accessible without godhood.” He smirks, baring teeth, “I would have thought my wolfhood a greater impediment to your understanding.”

Hadrian looks dumbfounded, as if he’s been handed a tome in a language he does not comprehend. Samot waits. Let him come to his own understanding; no use in overwhelming him, at least not without a purpose to it. Soon his eyes alight, and he glances up and down Samot’s form. 

Samot gives a small ahem. Hadrian has the good grace to look embarrassed. 

He wants to tell Hadrian everything that did not get written into scripture and passed down over the eons. He wants to fill him with the knowledge his church and god deny him. But he must not unsettle his new paladin too fast. It is plain to see how much strength Hadrian draws from his faith; his conviction to Samothes is admirable, if naive. Undermine it too fast and the man will crumble. Act slowly, and Hadrian will come to see the truth of things. 

Samot turns back to face Hadrian. “How much do you know about what Samothes and I were to each other?” he inquires. 

Hadrian is quiet for a moment, then replies, “Nothing. You do not appear in any of our texts or commentary... or if you do, it’s not by name. Like the story of the wolf.” 

“Did Samothes have nobody by his side?” 

“He usually appears alone,” Hadrian murmurs, “all others can only aspire to his greatness.” 

Samot can’t help it. He scoffs, “He was never alone, not even at the end.” The cruel irony of it all. He turns to face the balcony, the ocean breeze, the stars. Hadrian, perhaps detecting the bitterness in his tone, allows him his grief. 

He thinks of the unsent letter that had been resting on his desk when he felt the world shift, and the drawer where the still-unsent letter lives now, the wax seal brittle and cracked, the paper not gone to dust through enchantment alone. An apt metaphor for his existence. He’d long known the Church of Samothes had no use for him in their cosmology, but to hear the proof of that from the mouth of a man with such love for Samothes... it is enough to overwhelm his defenses. 

He composes himself and turns back to Hadrian. “So you do not know what we were to each other.” Hadrian shakes his head. His face is so handsome in the dim twilight glow. 

What can he say? What explanation can contain the world? The pain still rends deep, cleaving narrative and sense. He cut out my heart; there is nothing to say. 

“He was my lover, Hadrian. We were devoted to each other, in every way possible. He completed me. You must understand what that devotion feels like.” 

Hadrian’s eyes are bright with compassion and caution. So ready to sacrifice, his paladin. His love for Samothes is plain to see, yet he does not know the truth of the god he loves. 

“I... I didn’t know, I’m sorry.” 

“How could you have known?” Samot murmurs, “It was so long ago.” Stories fade, are woven and rewoven into new garments with each age. Such impermanent traces of what once was. 

Hadrian takes a step toward him, then another, until he stands just outside of Samot’s reach. His hand keeps reaching out then falling back to rest; Hadrian seems unaware. The dream is beginning to unravel. 

“So the myth was about you and Samothes?” 

Samot meets Hadrian’s eyes. “What can a story ever be said to be about?” He looks to the balcony, the stars. “But yes, there is a thread of truth in your myth of the sun-stealing wolf. When we first met, I did knock him off his feet.” 

The thread snaps. Samot holds his gaze on the stars. When he turns back, Hadrian is gone. 

The weight of recollection settles heavy in the chamber. Samot strides over to the balcony and surveys the city below, glowing with the copper-bright pinpricks of countless oil lamps despite the midnight hour. Beyond, the waves beat ceaselessly against the island’s shores, their rush and crash not audible from so high above. Thousands upon thousands of years in the unchanging city. And he, atop the ashes of his husband’s funeral pyre. Alone. 

Yet tomorrow the sun will rise, and it will be the same sun his husband crafted so many eons ago. Oh, his Samothes. Time has its way with stories; people take what they need and pass on what they desire. Myths entangle and reweave, and the story of his young love becomes an anonymized myth.

The stories of his lifetime are not exempt from the reworkings of translation, and the Church of Samothes and his dark son have done their best to eradicate him from their theology, and yet it pains him to be reminded of how little the world remembers the truth. He has made peace with being forgotten; he is content to have the intimate stories of their love remain theirs alone. But he cannot stand to be made a parable to prosthelytize Samothes’ infinite grace. 

Let him haunt their myths, abstract and unnoticed. He has work to do. 

Samot retreats to his chambers and resolves himself to a restless night. When he awakens at dawn, he does not recall his dreams. 

The invitation reaches the Plains of Celebration on a blissful summer day. Samot accepts the folded letter from the courier and runs his thumb over the seal, golden wax stamped with a sun sigil and emitting a radiant warmth. It’s been some time since he left behind the house in the woods to establish his own domain on the rolling plains, but he remembers Samothes’ aura. The control, the compelling authority, the heat. 

An invitation , he reads, to a High Sun Day celebration . There’s a margin note at the bottom in Samol’s distinct, spidery hand. Come to the birthday party and you’ll like what you see . Cryptic as always, his father. He’ll entertain the old man and make an appearance. From what little he’s seen of Samothes, the god does not know how to enjoy himself. If nothing else, Samot’s presence will save the party from itself. 

High Sun Day arrives in due time, bringing with it clear skies and a sea breeze that tousles his curls and threatens to lift his skirts as Samot arrives at the gate to Samothes’ volcano. Behind him, the city bursts with the raucous sounds of a festival only beginning to hit its stride. In front of him stretches the path into Samothes’ gardens, winding and verdant and lined with miniature suns suspended from the canopy. As he continues down the path towards the music emanating from deeper within, Samot restrains himself from cupping them out of the air like fireflies. 

Soon the trees part into a bustling courtyard full of partygoers. Samot takes in the musicians, the banquet tables piled high with fine food and drink, the collections of guests. He strides across the threshold and enjoys the ripple his entrance creates. He can feel the subtle attention of all the partygoers, their murmurs and their lingering gazes. He basks in it, brushing his curls over his shoulders, and he goes to greet his father, who’s holding court by the banquet tables. As he approaches, Samol catches his eye and waves, departing his crowd of listeners to meet Samot halfway. 

“Samot! You look gorgeous.” He looks him up and down, taking in the bodice’s plunging neckline and the flowing silk of his robes. “A very flattering cut, my boy,” Samol winks. 

Samot laughs, “Whatever could you mean? I needed something suitable for the heat, that’s all.” 

“I’d think you’re trying to ensnare a new man, dressed like that.” 

“So what if I am?” 

“Hm. Well, you go enjoy yourself. Don’t break too many hearts.” 

Samot laughs again, “Don’t worry, they’ll know it’s a passing amusement for us both.” He bids Samol goodbye and reaches for a glass of sparkling wine. Drink in hand, he turns back to the party, and there in radiant golden robes stands the most beautiful man he’s ever seen. 

The breath leaves his lungs in a rush. He remembers a distant childhood, a fire-haired young man glimpsed from the mycelium shadows, the feeling of the sun on his new flesh, the warmth of the wax on his invitation. Samothes. Samothes, who’s looking across the party at Samot, his eyes rich and full of something he can’t yet decipher. 

His feet carry him across the distance between them as if on air. Samothes holds his gaze and extends his palm to Samot, and Samot places the tips of his fingers on his palm. Samothes’ hand is warm and calloused and in his own. Samot realizes that all the light on Hieron has only ever been Samothes’ essence, as all the earth is Samol’s, and all that light has been but a paltry substitute for the heat of Samothes’ gaze on him. 

“Samot. It’s good to finally meet you,” he murmurs. His voice is smooth and deep. Samot finds himself in the unfamiliar experience of searching for the words to respond. He prides himself on his wit and wordplay, and yet Samothes is earnest in a way that he did not expect. Nor did the quality of his voice help the matter.

Samot inclines his head and lets his hair slip across his shoulder and fall to frame his face. “The same, Samothes.” He straightens and sets his face in a light smirk. “And a joyful High Sun Day to you, though I wonder what use our kind have for keeping track of birthdays.” 

Samothes laughs sun-bright, and Samot feels the birds he’d not realized were flapping around his stomach settle down. “You know,” Samothes chuckles, “I’ve never thought about it in that way. And yet, I am bound by obligation. Are you enjoying the party?” 

Samot recognizes the turn to etiquette as a maneuver of delay; not a command for a more superficial conversation, but a request to continue their introduction later, in a more private setting. He curls his index finger to draw it along Samothes’ palm. “I have; I delayed my arrival by admiring all the suns you assembled on the path. Your craftsmanship is unmatched.” 

“Thank you.” Samothes curls his fingers and captures Samot’s in a firm hold, then inclines his head, “If you’ll excuse me.” 

Samot nods. Samothes withdraws his hand and gaze, and Samot has to remind himself to breathe. He feels as though he’s sprinted through the forest or stared unblinking at the sun. Which, in a way, he has. 

He drifts into another conversation in a daze, vaguely aware of the easy words flowing from his tongue. With his effervescence, nobody notices his relative absence. Words were his first weapon, and he’s only sharpened and finessed their use since his days as a shadow. He’s grown from feral child to poised god through language, and now he finds himself so practiced as to hold a civilized exchange while his mind travels elsewhere. 

None of these people demand his full attention. Few have the spark that intrigues him. Nor should they want his attention, he thinks; those that intrigue him often find they cannot escape his gravity. He is not cruel—far from it. He simply does not want to waste time on dull people when he could entertain himself with the interesting ones. 

And Samothes intrigues him. He’s handsome, yes, but Hieron is full of handsome men for Samot to enjoy. There’s something special about him. His godhood, perhaps? Samot knows what love feels like; he falls in love with a new man every week, takes his paramour back to the Plains of Celebration, and they pass the time well until parting their separate ways. The strength of the drawn he feels toward Samothes cannot compare. Against the shadows of his creation, the candle of each romance was blinding, but now he has stared into the sun. He feels as if the whole world has awoken inside his chest. 

He cannot stop his eyes from drawing back to Samothes as he fails to focus on the conversations around him. When he’s not looking, he can feel Samothes watching him as well. After some time, Samot’s eyes flicker over to Samothes and find him staring out of the corner of his eyes back at Samot. 

Samot slips away from his conversation, holding Samothes’ gaze in his own for a second too long. Then he turns and glides towards the garden paths. He pauses to smell a blooming passionflower vine, flicking his eyes to ensure that he still has Samothes’ attention, then continues into the garden, on the lookout for a suitable cove. He spots a well-grown wisteria vine, thick with pale clusters of blossoms that brush the ground, and lifts the thin branches to reveal an intimate hollow with space for two. Perfect. 

Samothes shouldn’t be far behind, so he hurries to arrange his hair and robes, then fixes his attention on a blossom cluster hanging at eye level near the trunk. The heady fragrance fills his nose as he guides it down to his face, his back to the direction of the party. 

A few moments pass before he hears steady footsteps along the stone path, then softer on the dirt and moss, then come to a halt outside the wisteria. Samot breathes in audibly, exhaling with a gentle ah, and the wisteria behind him rustles. 

“Found you.”

“Oh, Samothes!” Samot whirls around as if caught off guard. “I didn’t hear you approach.” 

Samothes grins and lets the curtain of wisteria fall closed behind him. “I must say, this is quite a spot you’ve found.”

“I needed some shade; it’s so much warmer here than on the Plains.” He takes in Samothes, from the curls of his dark hair to the trimmed line of his beard to the way his robes fall open across his broad chest. Up close, he can make out the sumptuous goldwork embroidery that covers Samothes’ robes; it compliments him well. He’s gorgeous. 

“I can believe that,” Samothes replies. “Samol told me you had established your domain on the Plains, which led me to believe that you had come into your godhood, and...” he glances to the side, looking bashful, “And when I saw you here, I was... you are... it was very good to see you. Your robes suit you.” 

Samot tilts his head and lets his hair drape over his shoulder. “It’s so hot here, I needed something that wasn’t constricting.”

“I meant the color.” 

“Uh huh.” Samot settles himself down on the mossy ground and leans his back against the twisted central trunk of the vines. “And that’s why you can’t take your eyes off me, hm?” he smirks, gesturing to the space next to him. 

Samothes laughs and takes the offered seat. He leans his head back and sighs, then answers, “I can give you no compliment you have not already received.” 

Samot twists his legs to kneel facing Samothes, leaning forward on his hands. “Well, each compliment is new when it comes from you.” 

Samothes’ gaze is heavy and rich, laden with potential. His face is so close. Samot finds that the warmth that pools in his fluttering stomach befits his place as recipient of the sun god’s attention.  

“You are gorgeous,” Samothes murmurs, “but you knew that already.” 

“And you are gorgeous,” Samot echoes, “but I hope my saying it makes it ring true.” 

Samothes glances down at his lips, then flicks his eyes back up, full of want, and Samot closes the distance. There is no grand swell, no bolt of realization, just a sweet sense of rightness, like he’s come up for air and only then discovered he was underwater. How simple the secrets of the universe seem now.  

Samot loses himself in the feeling of Samothes’ lips pressed against his own as he moves to straddle Samothes’ lap, his warm hands resting on his calves, his cheeks, his shoulders. Samothes kisses like he crafts, with fire and purpose and determination, if a bit inexperienced. Samot has kissed many men before, but none have felt quite like this. Each press of their lips pulses a burst of heat through his sternum, and he doesn’t pull back until he’s gasping for air. 

Samothes stares breathlessly at Samot, his lips reddened, and Samot stares back and smiles. Samothes grins and gives a small snort, and they both dissolve into laughter. Samot rests his head against Samothes’ shoulder and feels Samothes’ chest resonate with his laughs. His heart feels so light. 

“From the moment I saw you, I felt drawn to you. Did you feel it too?” Samothes nods, his beard rustling against Samot’s hair. 

“I’ve never felt like this before,” Samothes sighs, “and yet I know it to be true.” 

They sit in silence for several moments before Samothes speaks again. “Do you remember seeing me, back when Samol had just given you form?” 

“I do. I would peer out from the shadows of the forest and watch you work.” 

“You would?” 

Samot nods. “You often seemed lost in thought, and so I drank in all of you that I could.”

“Hungry for knowledge, even after you halted your word-devouring.” 

Samot hums and lifts his head to capture Samothes’ lips in another kiss. When they pause for breath, Samot whispers against his cheek, “Other devouring, not so much,” and grabs Samothes’ lower lip with his teeth, wolflike. They drink each other in, savoring the bright sensation of mouth and mouth and skin on skin, occasionally pausing to breathe before returning to their newfound desire. 

When they grow bored of kissing, they talk of the arc of the universe and the varieties of conifer and the best way to drink tea, of everything and nothing. They lie on their backs and watch as the sunlight filtering through the wisteria blossoms changes from golden to amber to lilac. 

Soon the delicate purple of dusk falls. Samothes hums, then fiddles with the array of golden rings that decorate his hands. He selects a simple band on his little finger and pulls it off. Samot watches in amazement as the metal liquifies into a glowing pool in Samothes’ palm, then suspends itself in the air as a miniature sun. He glances over to Samothes and finds him grinning sheepishly back. Samot stands and reaches up to feel the gentle heat. At its size, Samot supposes he could close his palms around it and no light would escape. He’s holding his fingertips a sliver away from the sun when another floats into his vision, then another, then another, as Samothes fills their alcove with pinpricks of amber light. 

Samot laughs clear and bright as whirls around, hands outstretched. His work finished, Samothes rolls onto his side, and Samot dives back down and lets Samothes pull him in close. Hands clasped, they watch the suns bob and turn in the wisteria sky. 

Time stretches honey-loose as Samot murmurs, “I seem to have stolen you away from your own celebration.” 

Samothes chuckles. “To be honest, this is the most fun I’ve had at a High Sun Day celebration in quite a long time. They’ve come to be something of a requirement.” He punctuates his statement with a long yawn. 

Samot traces his finger up Samothes’ chest. “Getting tired already?” 

“The sun is at rest, so I am too.” He yawns again. “Nocturnal, are you?” 

“On the Plains of Celebration, the night is young.” 

Samothes hums and sits up. Samot follows suit as Samothes pulls his robe back onto his shoulder and combs a hand through his hair, then rises, and Samot is struck again by how handsome he is in the dim sunlight. He offers Samot his hand and Samot takes it. 

As Samot brushes himself off, Samothes begins to gather the suns and reform them into rings. Night falls bit by bit in the garden. When he reaches the last sun, Samothes spends much longer on returning it to a ring. Samot waits, curious. 

At last Samothes turns and holds out a slender golden band. Samot extends his hand, and Samothes places the ring on his index finger, then touches the ring and whispers something under his breath. It’s the perfect size and warm on his finger. 

Samot is holding up his hand and admiring the craftsmanship when Samothes murmurs, “Take it off and see what happens.” Samot nods and slides the ring off his finger, and as it clears his fingernail, a miniature sun appears in the air in front of him. Samot gasps and replaces the ring on his finger, and the sun disappears; removes the ring again and the sun reappears.

“A gift to remember the occasion,” Samothes smiles. Samot pulls him down for another kiss, only pulling away when Samothes reaches for the wisteria curtain and gestures for Samot to go first. Samot follows, pausing as he leaves to breathe in one last heady breath of the blossoms and to admire the curling green tendrils of new growth. 

Hadrian is a kind man at heart. Tabard is right—he is not of the temperament to serve as a pala-din. Yet there is a spark in him that I seek to draw out. He will be of great use to me, I know it. And if he does not satisfy my expectations, he will not be the first. 

Last night he came to me in his dreams. I confess, I encouraged the connection, for I had an ear to his telling of a familiar fairytale to his darling son. “The Wolf Who Ensnared the Sun,” he called it. I’ve found the passages he’s expanded upon the holy books of the Church of Samothes. Curse them, all of them. Soon their gilded bark will fall away and reveal the festering core. They have no right to my legacy, and still they use me. 

I wrote myself into existence; I wrote the world around me. I wrote my love onto scraps of paper and sealed them in wax and sent them across the Plains to the City of Light and waited for the responses carried on rays of sunlight. And now, what is left? A sacrificial wolf at the altar of Samothes’ supposed benevolence? When the stories fail, who am I? 

To reconfigure was to rewrite history and influence present possibility. It was a strategy of narrative, of myth. Reconfiguration has long been beyond my reach, but I now realize that in losing it, I also lost myself. 

The way I’d tell it is, “The wolf could only enjoy the shadows alone. After seeing the lake of fire and the sun and the gorgeous fire-haired man, she wasn’t sure she wanted to be alone any longer.” 

The irony does not escape me.

The shortest day comes. As the new sun rises after the longest night, the year turns over. The study of the holy texts returns once more to the beginning. Velis shelters from the snow, and in the fading light of dusk, Hadrian huddles over the daily portion. 

Familiar themes emerge. The story shows pride in hard work. The tale is driven by a creature who has not yet known the grace of Samothes, yet the action requires Samothes to lack caution with his creations, and so Hadrian reads a necessity of keeping important things close to you. Samothes seeks to share his creations with the world, not use his power to hoard them, and so we too should share our light, material and metaphorical. The sun shines for no single creature. 

You are mighty forever, King-God on high; redeemer of life and warmth of all. 

Yet what of the wolf? He can see it in his mind’s eye: the sun the only spot of light in the whole world, bright on Samothes’ hand and face, and the wolf watching from the deep shadows of the pines, drawn by his most holy light. Tempted, she had stolen the sun, and regretted her selfish mistake. But was that all? 

Hadrian stands and paces his room. His prayer has always been physical, but in the motion he finds no answers. He stares back at the book on the table, lit by a single candle, the pages dogeared and precious, and notices for the first time how small it is. It cannot contain the world. 

What had the wolf stolen from Samothes? What had Samot stolen from Samothes? Samot said that they had been lovers. If the holy books have lost that, what else is lost? And how was it lost, and by whom? 

His thoughts return to Samot. The man had said that there was a thread of truth in the tale, that he had knocked Samot off his feet, and then Hadrian had awoken to the dawn streaming in and Rosana stirring next to him. They had been lovers, or so Samot said. Was the sun his love, his heart? Why does the holy book not record it? 

What happened to the wolf , Benjamin had asked, and Hadrian had not known. He knows better now. 

And so it came to be that the creatures of the shadows came into Samothes’ light, drawn by the glory of his most holy creation. 

Or so the holy story says. But perhaps it is only a myth.