In the Shadow of Orion, part 2 (of 2)

The Stars

Time unknown

The constellation faded, its stars drifting back into their appointed places. Around Lily, the Library of Aetherion pulsed with quiet energy, as if the stars themselves were murmuring in their sleep. She lingered on the platform, her gaze trailing the ethereal rail of light as the swan of Cygnus vanished into mist.

“Does it ever…” she hesitated. “Does it ever feel too much?”

Orion turned his head, watching her with something unreadable in his expression. “The vastness?”

She nodded. “Yes. It’s all so… beautiful. Beyond words. But part of me…” Her voice trailed off, uncertain.

“Yes?”

“…Part of me misses the weight of things.”

He did not speak for a long moment. The silence was not empty, but thoughtful.

“You miss gravity,” he said at last.

“Not just the pull of the earth,” she whispered. “The pull of life.”

She stepped from the platform onto a crystalline bridge that arched over a starmap like a frozen wave. Below, a glowing spiral of constellations spun endlessly, each thread a path, a memory, a story. She walked slowly, her boots clicking faintly. The bridge felt delicate, but sure.

“Yesterday—if it was yesterday—I drank tea with my mother in the drawing room,” she said, voice softer now. “She had forgotten to warm the pot, and the scones were dry. We laughed about it. It was ordinary. Utterly unremarkable. But now… I think of it like a painting hanging in my memory.”

Orion walked beside her. “Starlight does not replace warmth. It only illuminates what you carry.”

They passed a sculpture of stars suspended in a sphere—a family gathered around a hearth, a cat curled in sleep, an open book on someone’s lap. Lily slowed, staring.

“Why is that here?”

“It’s called The Hearth. Brought into being by a traveler like you. Long ago.”

Lily reached out, her fingers hovering near the glowing shape of a woman’s hand—knitting, mid-motion. “She missed her home?”

“She did.”

Lily smiled sadly. “She made it in the stars.”

“She never left the library,” Orion said gently.

A silence fell, deep and soft.

And there, beneath the vaulted heavens of memory, Lily Monroe of London felt the first true ache bloom in her chest—not for more wonder, but for something smaller. The scent of coal smoke in the morning. The rough wool of her father’s coat. The feel of her cat stretching on the windowsill. The sound of boots on the stair.

Her fingers curled into her palm.

“I don’t regret coming,” she said. “But perhaps…” Her voice trembled, just a little. “Perhaps even stars aren’t enough, if you’ve no one to share them with.”

Orion bowed his head. “The stars are always watching, Lily. But only Earth holds your echo.”

And Lily, heart strung between worlds, stood in a chamber of light and legend, the first thread of longing stitching her gently, painfully, homeward.

***

The bridge narrowed as they walked, winding gently through a corridor of suspended constellations—each one humming softly, a lullaby of light and legend. The stars shifted above them, not cold but watchful, like ancient eyes blinking slowly in the dark.

Orion slowed, then gestured ahead.

“She dwells there,” he said quietly, nodding toward an alcove of shadow where the stars did not shine.

Lily hesitated. “Who?”

“Once a wanderer like you.”

The air changed as Lily approached, growing still and heavy, like the calm before a thunderstorm. The alcove opened into a room unlike the rest of the library—no glass bridges or radiant scrolls, no swirling constellations. It was dark and quiet; sacred.

And there—seated upon a ledge formed of smooth moonstone, surrounded by tall, blank mirrors—was a woman.

She looked human, or had once. Her hair spilled like liquid night, her skin dusted with shimmer like frost. Her robes were stitched from the void between stars, and her eyes… her eyes were old. Not aged, but ancient—soft grey, touched with a deep, distant sorrow.

She looked up as Lily stepped inside.

“Oh,” the woman said, smiling faintly. “A new one.”

Lily faltered. “I didn’t mean to intrude—”

“But you did,” the woman interrupted, though her voice was gentle. “And that is well. Few come this way. Fewer still choose to stay.”

Lily’s heartbeat felt louder in the silence. “You stayed?”

“I did.” The woman rose, gliding toward her with the quiet grace of smoke. “I was once Evelyne Clay. London-born. A student of stars. I stood upon a rooftop, not unlike yours, and met one of Orion’s kind.”

“Did you regret it?” Lily asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Evelyne looked past her, into the mirrors.

“They showed me wonders,” she said. “Worlds made of wind and gold. I rode sunbeams and drank moonlight. I sang with orbs of sentient fire and walked with shadows that remembered being men. I loved every breathless minute.”

She turned to face Lily fully.

“But time… does not pass here as it does below. I stayed too long. And Earth… moved on without me. My father died. My mother forgot my face. My home became rubble. I was lost in the stars… and the world forgot I had ever walked upon it.”

Lily swallowed hard. “You can’t go back?”

Evelyne smiled again—but it was a smile wrapped in melancholy.

“No. To return now would be like stepping into a dream half-remembered. The London I knew is gone. The people I loved are stardust. Even the language has shifted.” She looked down at her hands. “I am a relic now. A whisper.”

Lily stepped closer, breath catching. “Then why stay?”

“Because my life is here now.” Evelyne looked at her with soft understanding. “And I am not brave enough to return. So I will stay. I built this chamber, and I reflect back the dreams of humans. And sometimes… sometimes, I watch new dreamers arrive and wonder what I might say to them to help them in their choice.” She smiled sadly.

Lily felt the ache inside her deepen, coil. Her throat tightened.

“What would you say to me?”

Evelyne reached out and gently brushed a strand of hair from Lily’s brow.

“I would say: the stars are eternal. They will always wait. But your people… your moments… they will not. Go home while your tea is still warm. While your window still looks the same. While they still say your name with laughter.”

Lily’s breath trembled.

Orion’s voice, low and steady, broke the silence behind her. “Many never meet Evelyne. Fewer still listen.”

But Lily was listening.

And something inside her—something more rooted than wonder, more enduring than awe—shifted.

They left the Library of Aetherion in silence.

The stars did not sing as loudly now. The constellations watched her pass with a gentler gleam, as if sensing the shift within her. Even the winds of light seemed slower, more contemplative, curling in lazy spirals instead of dancing flares.

When they returned to Elathria, twilight had settled over the gardens.

The crystalline trees cast long shadows in shades of amethyst and dusky silver. Pools of starlight lay still, their surfaces reflecting not the sky—but memories. The air was cool and fragrant, tinged with the sweet scent of something that reminded Lily faintly of violets after rain.

She wandered without speaking, her footsteps light on the glass-moss paths. Orion walked beside her, quiet as the twilight.

They reached a grove she had not seen before—one where the flowers opened only at dusk. The blooms were wide and glowing, shaped like cupped hands. Each held a small orb of light, pulsing faintly.

“These are Eversighs,” Orion murmured. “Each one holds a moment someone wished to hold forever.”

Lily knelt by one of the blooms, her hand hovering just above it. Within the glowing orb, she saw an image—a woman twirling with her child on a summer lawn, skirts flying, laughter caught in the amber glow of afternoon.

Another blossom held the last embrace of two lovers before war.

Another: an old man reading by firelight, his dog asleep at his feet.

“Do they ever fade?” she asked.

“No,” Orion said. “But they remain here. Frozen.”

Lily gazed at them, her eyes damp. “I don’t want my life to be a frozen memory.”

She stood and walked deeper into the grove, her fingers trailing along the petals. The garden shimmered with beauty—otherworldly, aching in its perfection. But now she saw it differently.

There was no dust here. No laughter from the flat below. No clatter of cups. No missed appointments. No misunderstandings, or surprises, or sudden bursts of joy that came from nothing more than shared glances and warm bread and a book falling open to a favorite page.

She sat beneath a tree whose bark glowed like moonstone. Above, its leaves chimed softly as they moved in the breeze.

“I used to think wonder was something I had to find,” she said aloud. “That it waited somewhere else. Above. Beyond. But now…”

She trailed off.

Orion sat beside her, his form casting no shadow, his gaze on the still pools.

“You saw,” he said. “What most do not.”

“I saw Evelyne,” she murmured.

Orion did not reply. He didn’t need to.

Lily let the silence wrap around her. Not heavy. Not empty. Just present.

And in that hush, she placed a hand on her chest, felt her heartbeat—slow and certain.

Earthly, fleeting, but real.

A breeze passed through the garden, stirring the blooms. Somewhere, a pool shimmered with her own reflection—not the one of stardust and wide eyes, but of a girl from London, her hair wind-tossed, her face marked with quiet resolve.

Lily Monroe was remembering who she was.

And the stars, wise and ancient, did not grieve. They only shimmered brighter—as if proud.

The garden was quiet as Lily rose to her feet.

Orion, tall and still, watched her with a calm that belied something deeper—something ancient and knowing, a melancholy borne of countless partings.

She turned to him slowly, her shawl billowing like a sail in the gentle breeze of Elathria. Her eyes shimmered, not with awe now, but with the tender sorrow of goodbye.

“I should return,” she said softly.

Orion inclined his head. “I know.”

Lily stepped toward him, closing the space between wonder and warmth.

“You gave me everything I dreamed of. You showed me the stars, Orion. You showed me myself.”

“And you reminded me,” he said, voice like rushing water, “that wonder does not live only in the cosmos. That there is beauty in the fleeting. In the fragile. In you.”

She reached for his hand—still radiant, still humming with starlight—and held it one last time.

“I thought I belonged up here,” she whispered. “But now I see I belong in the in-between. In the laughter and the dust, the teacups and the tears. I don’t want to become a story etched in light. I want to live.”

“You will,” he said. “And when you look up again, you;ll remember this. Not as a dream but as a truth.”

She nodded once. “Goodbye, Orion.”

A pause.

Then he smiled—a slow, luminous thing, soft as moonlight on still water.

“Not goodbye, Lily of Earth. Only until next you dream.”

He raised his hand, and the stars answered—not with sound, but with motion. The sky above them began to swirl, folding inward like the turn of a page. The garden fell away in a wash of gold, and Lily felt herself drawn downward—not pulled, not pushed, but gently returned.

The starlight dimmed and the breeze cooled.

And the rooftop came into focus—worn slates beneath her feet, chimney bricks still warm from the day’s fire.

London’s night had not moved. Fog curled low, the lamplight flickered. Somewhere a cat yowled in the distance, and a carriage clattered far below.

Lily Monroe stood once more atop her home.

But something had changed.

She pressed a hand to her chest, felt the soft thrum of her heart. The memory of stardust still glimmered faintly in her hair. And in her eyes—those bright, curious eyes—the sky was no longer a ceiling.

It was a promise.

And as she turned to descend into the quiet house, she whispered a single word to the stars:

“Thank you.”

And she thought she heard the sound of Orion’s and Evelyne’s voices, bird song and waterfall whisper,

“Until next time.”

Teacake Tidbits

1. Constellations Are Cultural Stories Written in the Sky

While many Western constellations come from ancient Greek and Roman mythology, nearly every civilization has created its own star patterns. The stars themselves are universal—but how we connect them reflects human culture, belief, and imagination. For example, the Greeks saw Orion the Hunter, while in Chinese astronomy, those same stars are part of the White Tiger of the West.

2. Orion Is One of the Easiest Constellations to See

Visible in both the Northern and Southern Hemispheres, Orion is one of the most recognizable constellations in the sky. Its bright belt of three stars—Alnitak, Alnilam, and Mintaka—makes it a guidepost for amateur astronomers. In the Victorian era, even without light pollution and advanced tools, Orion would have been a familiar and comforting figure in the night sky.

3. Constellations Change Over Millennia

Though they seem eternal, constellations slowly shift over thousands of years due to the Earth's precession (a slow wobble of the planet’s rotation). What we see today is only one version of the sky’s tapestry. Some ancient constellations no longer exist, while others are recent inventions added during the 16th to 18th centuries by European astronomers exploring the Southern Hemisphere.

If you missed Lily's journey to the stars, you can read it here.