“Alright, I’ll tell you all the story.” 

The man huffed a laugh as 

the children halted in their tracks and 

scrambled to sit beside the roaring fire.

“But we must wait until all of the stars are out,

for it is a favorite of theirs to hear.” 

The man’s eyes twinkled with 

mischief and the children hushed although 

the ambience of the night crept in,

the chirping of camouflaged crickets

and the snapping and crackling fire,

which filled overeager faces with a rosy glow.

“There was a boy who caught a fallen star

and as descended, meandering down, the

cosmos shuddered, the earth itself 

shaking underfoot, jagged cracks snaking along the

bed of the howling river. 

The stars flickered out and 

blazed even fiercer, 

shoving the clouds aside to get a better look.

Even the sun opened its eyes sleepily 

to peer down at the sight,

and the planets crept as close as they dared. 

The boy marveled at his treasure

and cradled it close to his racing heart

fire scorching onto his skin and

charring his clothing.

But stars cannot linger on the earth and 

must return to seal their constellation,

fighting back the endless void that 

threatens to crawl in and 

crush each fragile star to ashes. 

So the star dashed out into the sky

without a backward glance and 

the boy was left with a weight on

his shoulders and a grace that he 

could not understand.

His fingertips were brushed 

with metallic stardust, gleaming in 

silvery and bronze hues which

pierced through the muted light as 

the dawn painted pastels across the sky.

It remained on his palms, as thick as scales, 

and left patches of stardust on 

all that he touched, but like 

a spark of hope, never died out,

but shed once a month as the moon filled,

curling into bronze and silver shavings.

The astonished boy stepped out

of the meadow, blissfully unaware of

the brand on his soul, a tether

between him and the star,

amplifying his strength, 

endurance, and 

agility. 

A command was written in his mind

as if he had been born with the knowledge

to never let the shadows in

and be the unfailing light in the darkness,

but never to imagine

or even consider that he might be a god,

else they would let the darkness devour him.

The boy grew into a man,

marked with stardust on his 

soul and began to wield a crescent blade, 

forged from his very own hands,

the hilt permanently stained with his stardust.

The blade glowed with the 

soft radiance of moonlight and 

the harsh ardence of the molten sun.

The champion of the celestials, 

rebirthed from the stars.

The protector of the earth,

driving back the persistent darkness,

which creeps into every crevice and 

crack of the earth,

infecting nature itself with its bite and 

threatening to extinguish all that is alive.

And so we tell the stories,”

The man ruffled one of the sleepy

children’s curls, tiling his head back

to study the sky. 

“And if you look up into the sky,

search for a jagged line of stars.”

He pointed up at a constellation

that seemed to grow brighter 

than all of the others in that moment. 

“There is the warrior with the 

radiant blade and stained hands,

forever subduing the void,

keeping it from the earth.”