He was always a quiet child. Often found in the shadows, tucked away in corners where the light never reached. Back then, she convinced herself it was only shyness - that he was simply thoughtful and reserved. That he didn't need her the way the others did.
Lies - all of it.
And now, here he was again - alone. But this time, it was entirely her fault.
The ice beneath her feet was smooth, polished to a perfect mirror that reflected her trembling form. Every step echoed louder than it should have in the vast emptiness. Above, the moon hung impossibly large, its pale glow spilling across the frozen wasteland like spilled milk. There were no stars. No wind. Only her breath, shallow and too loud in the stillness, forming small clouds that dissipated into nothing.
Each sound was a disturbance in this place where silence reigned absolute.
Still, here she stood, fingers trembling not from cold but from terror, reaching for him in a place where no mother should walk. The soul was not meant for others to trespass - even for blood, even for family. But grief… grief made liars of all boundaries.
The air around her shimmered, breathless and cold. Her lungs seized with each inhalation, as if the very atmosphere rejected warmth - rejected life.
It was a reflection of him. Of what remained of him.
Cel sat on a stretch of silver-lit ice perhaps fifty steps away, his back to her. His form was whole - the Moon Goddess's blessing had seen to that. But there was something wrong with the way he held himself. He was still… too still. Not like a man at rest, but like a sculpture barely keeping itself from crumbling.
Beyond him, the frozen sea stretched endlessly, its surface so perfect it seemed like polished glass. It reflected the full moon above, creating the illusion of walking between two skies.
For a moment, she hesitated. Her hand rose to her throat, fingers pressing against the hollow where her pulse hammered.
She was far too late.
Her chest constricted, each breath shallower than the last. But there were no second chances in life. Just cruel, undeserved mercies. And today - for once - mercy had been given.
Only one could enter this place. She had begged to be that one. She had fought for that chance. Now, it was her hand that reached out.
She took a step forward, her breath stirring the silence.
"Celvian."
The name fell softly into the quiet. She had almost forgotten how it sounded, spoken aloud.
He did not turn. But that was fine. He was listening. He always had. Even as a boy, when words weighed more than blades, he had listened to what others dared not speak.
Slowly and carefully, she crossed the ice, each step deliberate and measured.
"I used to think silence meant peace…" she said, her voice drifting across the still air
"When your father was angry, when his voice filled the house like thunder, I prayed for silence. I thought... if everything just became quiet, things would be better."
Her steps were soundless now, as if the ice recognized her purpose. His back remained a silhouette of sharp lines and brittle stillness.
"But silence isn't peace, is it? It's just… empty."
She came to stand before him, and her heart nearly stopped. He was different now. Not the boy she remembered, not the man he had become in the stories whispered by others. His face was something in-between - untouched by time, untouched by life. And so terribly still.
Snow-white hair fell across his forehead where once it had been brown. His skin held the pale luminescence of moonlight, and his eyes... his eyes were fixed downward, upon his own reflection in the ice. But the face looking back at him was not his own. It was a boy's face. Fifteen - just before the exile that had torn him from their home and set him on a cruel path.
He was looking at the boy he once was - the one who had still believed in justice, in family, in love. The one who hadn't yet learned what the world truly was.
She remembered when his laughter had filled their home, when he ran around with boundless curiosity.
Something sharp lodged in her throat, and she had to swallow twice before she could speak again.
"Do you remember what you told me when you were small?" she asked softly.
There was no response. No flicker of recognition, no shift in his gaze. Only that same distant stillness, as if her words were nothing but ripples fading into a frozen sea.
"You were five. You'd scraped your knees climbing the old oak tree in our garden. You came to me, bloody and furious, and you said…" She smiled, bitter and soft. "It's not fair. Why does it hurt to try?"
The memory hung between them, fragile as spun glass.
"You've been asking that question your whole life, haven't you?" Her gaze lingered on his snow-white hair - so like the moon's light, so unlike his father's golden locks.
"Even now, you think the answer is simple. That it's because the world is cruel. That trying, fighting, hoping... it only brings pain."
Her fingers curled into the fabric of her robe, the rough wool grounding her in this surreal place.
"But life has never been fair, my son. Not to you. Not to me. Not to anyone. The world does not reward the righteous. It does not protect the kind. That was never its promise."
Cel's lips parted slightly. A breath. A whisper of reaction.
"But…" She continued, her voice trembling.
"...you made a different promise." She knelt beside him and gently cupped his face in her hands, guiding his gaze onto her face.
"You promised me you would live."
A tear slipped down her cheek, falling soundless onto the ice where it froze instantly.
"I know you are tired, Celvian. Gods, I know." Her voice cracked. "You've lost so much. Too much. And I would take it from you if I could. I would carry your pain until my bones cracked beneath its weight."
His eyes - those deep blue orbs that lost all its shine - wavered. Cracks in the frozen sea.
"But you are still here. Still breathing. Your life was not stolen from you. It was given back."
The words came harder now, dragged from the deepest well of her regret.
"I thought you had died…" She broke into tears.
"I saw you on the floor, bloody and broken, and I..." Her hands shook, words dissolving into the coldness.
The memory burned behind her eyes: Cel crumpled on the floor, blood pooling from his back, while his father dragged his limp form toward the door. She had stood frozen, her feet rooted to the ground.
"That was the day I failed you. Not because I was weak, but because I was afraid. Afraid to speak. Afraid to fight. Afraid to be the mother you needed."
But she had not come here to drown in the past. She had come to save what remained.
The silence loomed around them, vast and suffocating. It pressed against her ribs and coiled around her throat. Yet she did not look away. Not this time.
Then, after what felt like a lifetime, his fingers shifted. Just slightly. But enough.
"Why?" One word - barely a breath. But it struck her like a blade.
"Why should I come back?"
Her shoulders sagged, and she exhaled a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. "Because this–" She gestured around them, to the endless cold and the silent moon. "–is not where your story ends."
He turned his head, just slightly. But enough for her to see his face fully - older, sharper, with eyes that still carried the echoes of that boy she had failed to save. "I have no story left. Every time I tried… I failed. The kingdom burns and everyone I wanted to protect is dead."
Something inside her chest crumbled at the hollow certainty in his voice.
"Then, let us write a new one," she whispered. "A story about healing instead of revenge. About building instead of burning. Where you choose what you want to live for, not what you want to die for."
His gaze dropped back to his reflection - to that boy who had believed the world could be saved. "I'm tired of choosing. I'm tired of fighting. I'm tired of trying. I'm just… tired."
The weight of these words was crushing. Years of struggle, of loss, of watching everything he touched turn to ash. How could she ask him to bear more?
"Oh, my son." Her voice cracked. "You have every right to be. But even the moon waxes after it fades. It always finds the strength to rise again."
She placed her hand over his - cold meeting cold. "I won't leave you. Not this time. Not until you choose to stand again. And even then, I will be by your side."
A shudder ran through him, the first real movement she had seen. "I don't know how."
She smiled through the tears, and for the first time in many years, the corners of her mouth didn't feel like they were fighting against lead weights. "Then we'll figure it out. Together."
For a long moment, there was only the quiet rhythm of breath. Hers, trembling but steady. His, shallow but present.
Then, the ice beneath them cracked - not from weight, not from pain, but from the faintest, fragile spark of warmth. The moon above seemed to glow brighter, and somewhere in the distance, she could have sworn she heard the sound of water moving beneath the frozen surface.
And Cel, after a breath that felt like the first, closed his fingers around hers.
It wasn't a promise. It wasn't forgiveness. But it was a beginning.