The Fifteenth of Blóstfael

A sunbeam brushed gently against my eyelashes, flooding everything with warm scarlet light. I winced, opened my eyes wide, and sat up, glancing around in slight bewilderment. I’d had an unbearably strange dream, leaving an unpleasant aftertaste on my tongue. As if I were trying to grasp something—or someone—and it kept slipping… slipping beyond reach…

My own room, everything as always: my schoolgirl’s desk cluttered with foolish odds and ends, notebooks strewn in disarray. Above the mess hung the calendar, pale and stern. From that neatly lined rectangle, packed with tiny squares, the number 15 stared back at me, marked by haphazard red circles. The fifteenth day of Blóstfael—the second month of spring, its sweet, languid middle. The most important day of the year!

This time it will be different! I decided firmly. That resolve, the joy, and the long-awaited nature of the moment made me feel almost weightless.

I had always been one of those who didn’t bother weighing options or languishing in doubt once a decision came to mind. At fifteen, I had taken first place in the capital’s fencing tournament among girls. I had been on a real hunt. I had climbed the snowy summit, sailed under a canvas across the ocean…

Only one thing in my life could ever halt me mid-stride and make me doubt not only myself, but the very rightness of every breath I took—and for years, it had been Eya. Even her name was tender and fragile, like candy melting on the tongue. Her skin was white and fine, sprinkled with a constellation of brownish stars; her red hair, woven into tight, glossy braids. Slender fingers with pale pink nails, always smudged with ink. Even the curves of her round spectacles on a freckled nose seemed touching and sweet. And behind them—green, almond-shaped eyes framed by long lashes. Unbearable, heart-rending eyes, whose single glance pierced straight through, clean to the heart, and made me forget how to breathe…

What do I want from her? To dissolve, to kiss those full, timidly parted lips? Or to become her entirely, swallowing her soul like a restless spirit, claiming every breath, her face, the sound of her voice? One thing is certain—there has never been, and never will be, anyone dearer to me. But how unrequited could this feeling truly be? That trembling in the chest, the stumble of the heart, as if you’ve been running down the stairs and missed the last step.

Today, on your birthday… come what may!

The clock hands crept toward each other with relentless precision, poised to snap shut on the number nine — like jaws about to bite. First lesson starts at nine! Slipping out of the tangle of bedsheets, I quickly washed my face and ran fingers through the tight black curls—no force in the world could ever make them lie obediently anyway.

How lucky, not having to waste time agonizing over what to wear. The wide belt of my pleated uniform skirt clasped firmly around the waist. A school uniform is a blessing for girls like me! No time to think about appearance, nor to lament the cruel schedule on this very best day of the calendar—two long blocks of literary history first thing in the morning!

Hurry, hurry, I can’t wait to see her!

***

The Confederate Girls’ Institute of Narrative Arts, named after Marselius Waldmor, where we all had the good fortune to study, was meant to prepare young ladies of the upper classes for the noble professions of literary scholar and archivist. In practice, most cared little for the tedium. Known to the public as the “Institute of Noble Brides,” it had for years supplied first-rate debutantes for the opening of the ball season — conveniently held right after graduation.

A strict teacher tapped dates and key facts on the lectern with her pointer, hoping to capture our attention. Some read or did homework for “more important” classes; others stared dreamily into space, already picturing themselves in the happy marriages most would enter soon after leaving this venerable institution.

I idly doodled hearts and stars in my notebook margins, only pausing when the pointer cracked against the wood to jot down yet another date or name.

“…For many years the poet and the sovereign were bound by a long, close friendship — so deep and tender that, in the strict decorum of their age, it could not escape whispered rumors…”

I looked up from my meaningless scribbles, ears pricking. So, even the sovereign had fallen victim to a heart’s affliction like mine. Friendship that felt like love. Love that felt like friendship… And yet, how terrifying to confess.

I glanced sideways at Eya, busily writing a detailed outline in her neat, spotless notebook. Was she thinking of me? Did these words stir her even a little?..

“Their union seemed unshakable, until one day the king turned away,” the teacher went on, tapping another milestone with her pointer. “The reasons remain hidden from history. Yet one thing is certain: neither ever truly recovered from the loss. Cast into exile, Waldmor descended into poverty and silence…”

I barely stifled a nervous laugh. Eya, nibbling the end of her pen, watched the teacher’s dry hand scrawl the last, posthumously published lines of the great poet on the blackboard.

“And yet… years after his death, it was the very hand that once cast him down that commanded a monument in his honor. Even three centuries later, we can still see it. How much regret — and how much unspoken love — lies in that belated gift…”

I watched her tidy profile without hiding it.

How frightening — how unbearably frightening — to lose you…

Turning sharply on her heel to face the half-drowsy audience, the teacher clapped her hands to get our attention. It looked as if she were applauding either the few who had actually listened, or else our collective, hopeless ignorance.

“And now, young ladies, I trust you’ve listened closely to the Principles of Mirror Verse, because in the time remaining, each pair will compose one or more three-line twins.”

Like many others, I began frantically flipping through my jumbled notes — I was sure there was something in my memory, but I’d probably been far too busy with my own thoughts at the time.

“Do you remember what that is?” The whisper burned my ear, sending a wave of hot gooseflesh between my shoulder blades. Eya, my heaven-sent savior, had come to my rescue as always.

“No,” I whispered back hoarsely, swallowing the flutter in my chest — and was at once rewarded with a rush of hurried words. She cupped her hand to my ear, as if otherwise her words, like butterflies, might scatter across the classroom.

“It’s like mirror reflections of a single thought.” Her soft breath made the fine hairs on my neck stand on end. “For example, we could each write a poem about the same thing. They’d seem similar — but different at the same time.”

“Well, if it’s about the same thing, and only three lines, won’t they just end up identical?” I wanted to stretch the moment, so I played dumb to keep her close. “Roses-poses, love-dove, you know?”

Eya stifled a quiet giggle. In the mild, panicky hum of whispers, her musical laughter would have disturbed no one — except my heart.

“You’d be surprised. They can turn out completely different… Let’s make it a rule: the lines must include… say, eyes and wings,” she decreed, watching a plump pigeon pace along the ledge outside.

***

It took me half an hour to work up the courage to write my verse exactly as I had envisioned it. Eya simply sat beside me, reading a book, occasionally glancing my way. Her own three-liners she kept safely hidden from prying eyes, turning the page and setting a plump textbook down over it.

For some reason, her face was sad, as though either Waldmor’s poetry or her own words had saddened her. Or perhaps the poet’s biography had belatedly set her thinking about something?

“Well, have you finished?” I finally asked, catching her pensive gaze on me yet again. “Shall we swap and read? I’ll tell you right now—mine’s pure genius. I’m counting on applause.” As always, when I felt unsure of myself, I resorted to bravado to lift my spirits.

“All right,” Eya smiled faintly, and in that moment she somehow seemed older—older than me, older than her usual shy, dreamy self. “You first.”

Only then did I notice my friend had changed—her school uniform replaced by a simple, elegant dark green dress that perfectly set off her tight golden braids. Those braids seemed longer now, almost to her waist… How had I not seen it before, when I’d done nothing but look at her all this time?

For a moment—until I felt almost sick—everything blurred, as if seen through a veil, through the thickness of water. A nauseating wave swept over me, spun, then ebbed, leaving me glancing about, trying to anchor myself in the normality around me.

There it was—everything as usual: the cool grain of the school desk beneath my hands, the fat pigeon on the other side of the glass, blinking stupidly. And beyond it—oak branches, black and almost bare for this spring month, etched against the sky and beaded with tiny, just-born leaves.

“Hey, no fair, let’s read together!” I shivered. For some reason I felt cold in my warm woolen jacket.

“Really, you go first,” Eya pleaded almost plaintively, smiling at me with that warm smile of hers, soft and dimpled, the one I could never refuse. “I… want to hear you read it. Please.”

“Oh, allll right…” I drawled with feigned magnanimity. Fighting my embarrassment, I read my poem as sincerely and feelingly as I could, pouring all my restless teenage hope into those brief lines:

The quiet void in your gaze,

merciless the wings’ outspread.

My heart longs, unheard.

It was both a confession and a timid question, and an acceptance of the answer, whatever it might be—even if the person it was meant for decided to pretend no such question had ever been asked.

Raising my eyes from the lines, I didn’t at once dare to look at my friend.

“I’m so glad I got to hear that,” Eya said softly. Her voice, bright and gentle, sounded inexplicably, heartbreakingly beautiful to me. “Thank you.”

***

The day passed in a haze. I remembered nothing of the later lessons, nor the bustling scurry during breaks. One breath—and I was already sitting on the mighty roots like a bench, with an endless sky before me and the crowns of pines far below. Our hidden meeting place: the wind-twisted oak on the cliff’s edge above a bend in the river.

The broad stone ledge, entwined with centuries-old roots, formed a solid step above the drop, safe from that strange pull of the void when you stand too close to the edge. Sheltered by the wide trunk, Eya and I were exposed only to the wind and the river far below. Here we spent our evenings—talking, reading, or simply sitting in silence. Here too, I dreamed, our first kiss might happen—a sweet thought ringing in my heart.

Spring was staking its claim. Rivers and streams, fed by snowmelt from the mountains, had swollen, churning in the sunlight. Looking down at the torrent, I remembered the lazy, gleaming carp in the city pond. They would lunge greedily at the crumbs, until the water seemed to boil from the thrashing of their restless bodies. Back then it had seemed fun. Now—watching the current surge forward, devouring everything in its path—a strange, viscous feeling rose in me. As if under that foam something hungry and merciless was waiting to strike.

Leaning back against the rough trunk, I exhaled, trying to shake off the fear. The horizon was so distant it made the air seem tangible. Thin clouds, like sweeping brushstrokes on canvas, girdled the blue. Along the edge of the cliff, the fluffy heads of Lady’s cushion swayed in the breeze. Their spherical, pinkish-lilac blooms on slender stems seemed to grow right out of the rock, clinging to the tiniest cracks. Eya often sighed dreamily at the sight of these soft, fragrant flowers, but never dared get close enough to pick one—you’d have to lean dangerously over the drop.

But then—it was a drop for her, I thought with a faint note of pride—compared to climbing a sheer cliff face, a step away from the safety of the stone platform seemed child’s play. The flower suddenly seemed so precious I was determined to give it to Eya as a birthday gift.

Leaving my bag in the oak’s roots, I nimbly hopped down from the safe platform, tucking the hem of the skirt into the belt so it wouldn’t get in the way. I felt for a foothold with my toe, gripped the smooth stone tightly, and reached…

But the moment my eyes fell on the churning river, no longer screened by the safety of the plateau, everything blurred. And now the smooth sole of my shoe is slipping, my treacherously trembling hands can’t hold on, and the wet stones and the raging water rush up to meet me—and there is only fear, fear, nothing else...

“Fleur! Come back!”

A desperate cry rang out behind me. Her voice, sharp as the edge of a broken mirror, shattered the vision that had seized me. I turned, smiled at her, and, stretching out my hand, plucked the trembling flower—it had been right there, almost touching my fingers. Held it aloft in triumph and climbed back with ease—how could I ever have been afraid of such a trifle?!

Eya reached out a pale, slightly trembling hand to help me make the last step back onto the safe ledge. She was as white as a ghost, and my heart split in two. I handed her the slender stem, and she took it gently, as if it could shatter at any moment.

I don’t know how long we stayed there, sitting as always side by side on the oak root. We sat, unmoving, bathed in the evening light, like two little fish in clear water shot through with warm sunbeams.

Pushing a damp strand of hair behind my ear, I fixed my gaze on the setting sun. How many minutes were left to us? For some reason, right now, with the golden hour spilling fire into the air, it became painfully clear to me that none of this had ever truly happened. We had never shared this sunset—because I…

“They searched for you everywhere,” Eya finally said, rolling the flower’s slender stem between her fingers. “And then… I saw your bag in the roots, right in this very spot. And I knew. I’ve always tried to understand—people said you jumped yourself, but… That’s impossible.”

Her voice was tight, choked with the tears rising in her throat.

Leaning toward, wanting to comfort, I cupped her face in my cold, damp hands, and kissed. That kiss was fleeting and gentle, like the brush of a butterfly’s wings. And somehow, both she and I knew that once the sun set, our time would be over. But there was no fear now.

There was only a tender sadness. “It seems this time it really did work out differently, doesn’t it?” I asked with a smile, finally daring to look at Eya. Golden traces of the sun had stamped themselves like coins onto my irises. Tokens placed there by a caring hand, ones I had not yet claimed. I could hardly see her face. Perhaps that was for the best…

I could hardly see her face. Perhaps that was for the best…

“I’d meant to confess to you, and give you the flower,” I sighed at last. “But… sorry, it’s a silly gift, isn’t it?”

“No. It’s a good gift. A very good gift.” Eya smiled gently—I heard that smile more than saw it—her voice warmed, trembling slightly.

“It’s your birthday today,” I smiled with soft reproach. “And instead of celebrating—you’re here—with me…”

“My day, I’ll celebrate how I please,” she replied with a smile. It was now perfectly clear she was a woman in her early twenties. I caught the glint of a wedding band on her slender white finger. Didn’t look closer. Turned away. The tops of the pines below us were slowly sinking into bluish dusk, the splash of the stream beneath the cliff growing louder and louder in the dark, like an unspoken confession.

Time was running out, as though it wasn’t the sun sinking beyond the horizon, but shimmering sand of time pouring from the bowl of some vast, sky-sized hourglass. I rose lightly to my feet, turning back to the sky, the sun, the damn cliff. My shadow, long and transparent, fell over the woman before me like a veil.

“Don’t come again. That will be… my gift to you.”

“But I…” she began, desperate.

“Don’t,” I said firmly. “Better—read me your poem. I never did find out what you wrote that day.”

“All right,” she smiled. Her voice rang like a little bell over the sleeping forest as she read three short lines, sinking into the last light of the sun that had slipped beyond the world’s edge:

Eyes like hollow dusk,

wings as wide as parting skies —

I see you, undone.

Eya rose, took an old battered notebook from her bag, searched briefly, and tore out a thin sheet. Folding it, she smoothed the corners with a firm press of her fingernail, then slipped it into an envelope; the tip of her tongue traced the sweet glue edge, sealing forever the lines no one would ever read — a final kiss to a childhood love left in the past.

And there was no one left on the ledge.