Scattered Stars

V

“I don’t know who it is, but--”

“That’s me,” Thistle managed to breathe, still staring at Squall’s wrist, not really knowing what was happening.

Squall’s eyes widened. “No it’s not.”

Thistle’s tail reached up to slap herself in the face. “Yes,” she replied rapidly, looking Squall dead in the eye, “that is my name.” She jabbed her finger onto Squall’s wrist where her name was written.

“But that means--” the storm-wyvern took a step back from her, suddenly giving her a hostile look. 

“That means what?” Thistle furrowed her brow. 

“So,” Squall began, staring up at the roof of leaves, “some people, who are, like, special, okay, are born with two names on their hands--one is their soulmate, one is the person that will kill them one day.” Here he glanced an unsettled glance at Thistle, then continued. “But they don’t know which is which.”

Thistle thought for a minute, then looked at her hands. Thunder-Maker and King of Stone. Squall read her wrist and her palm, and his eyes popped out of his head.

“THAT’S ME!” he roared, leaping back.

“I know,” Thistle snapped at him, “now shut up and let me think.” She stared at her palm now. King of Stone… if Gargoyle’s parents are dead, then he must be--

“King,” she murmured aloud.

“What?” Squall came over, carrying a leaf in his hands.

“Gargoyle is either my soulmate or my enemy,” she decided. He must be my soulmate. That’s perfect. I always knew that we were--

She turned and found herself staring into Squall’s blue eyes.

But all these things… they swam together inside her like delicate, beautiful fish inside a pond. Thistle had become so attached to Squall--how could this have happened? When she thought of Gargoyle now, her heart didn’t leap inside of her like it had before she had met Squall.

Her head spun. It couldn’t happen. The maker of thunder could not, would not, would not, in any universe, be her soulmate. She was meant to be with Gargoyle, obviously.

I’ve barely known this idiotic storm guy for a day.

And already you love him, whispered a tiny part of her brain.

The urge to slam her face into the tree trunk was irresistible.

“So, hey, it’s sunrise,” Squall pointed out.

The sky had turned a vivid mustard-yellow, and the clouds were drifting away rapidly; the sun shone like a dewdrop clinging to the petals of a miraculous glowing rose. Thistle and Squall were both swept away by the sunrise’s beauty, and they stepped out from underneath their tree to watch.

Large banks of light clouds swam in the blue-and-pink expanse, like fish sleeping in a tidepool, slowly rotating around the sun in broken circle patterns. The stars glittered up in the sky, winking their goodbyes to the earth as the sun’s great beauty put their meek light to shame. 

The two stood there, underneath the cream-coloured sky, in blissful silence, listening to the chorus of birds greeting the morning.

When Thistle awoke from her awed daze, she remembered she still needed to get to the Oak Kingdom. Beginning again her long trip for about the eighteenth time she trundled through the forest, hoping Squall wouldn’t try to follow her.