The dawn always came, Nic decided, when he’d finally grown accustomed to the night. The moment the darkness began to feel like home, sunlight crested the trees to bring renewal and hope—and his own disappointment.
As the day wore on, he’d forget his comfort in the darkness and embrace the light. Then the night would come again and chase the day away. Despair would take him until just before the dawn.
He remembered Tyr saying he’d mourn the stars if he held them in his hands, because he could no longer behold them in the sky. But Tyr knew the magic of the dark and the glory of the day and lamented nothing.
Nic didn’t know how to tell him that his grief was not that he overlooked the magic of the night, but that the power of it was melancholy and tumultuous. The glory of day was gentler, but it paled in comparison.