The Lantern of Evermere

Love between Lyra & Aerith doesn't seem likely. How can their worlds collide together?

The moon hung low over Evermere Lake, its light shimmering like scattered silver coins across the still water. Lyra Rowan dipped her fingers into the glow and whispered the old summoning words her grandmother had taught her. Nights like this—when the veil thinned and the lake breathed—were rare. And she had come for only one reason.

To see him again.

A soft wind spiraled across the water, carrying the scent of pine and starlight. Then the lake rippled, as though something beneath its surface had stirred. Lyra’s lantern flickered. The white flame inside pulsed twice—then lifted from the wick and hovered before her like a floating star.

“Lyra,” a voice said, warm as sunrise.

She turned. Aerith emerged from the lake as though rising from a dream, water cascading from his hair in strands of silver. His eyes—the color of dawn breaking—met hers with luminous softness.

“It’s really you,” she whispered.

“It is always me,” he said, stepping onto the shore. He cupped the drifting flame in both hands; it melted into his palms like light returning home. “And it is always you who calls me back.”

Lyra let out a trembling breath. Aerith was a Lakenborn—a spirit bound to the waters of Evermere. Their lives could never fully touch. Yet she had loved him since the night she nearly drowned as a child and he carried her safely to shore. A decade had passed since then. The world had changed. She had changed. But the pull between them remained, as constant as the stars.

“How long this time?” she asked.

“A night,” he said gently. “Perhaps a little more, if the veil is kind.”

A night. It was never enough, but she nodded. Aerith reached for her hand, hesitant, as if afraid his touch might break her. But when his fingers met hers, warmth bloomed in her chest.

They walked along the shore, the lantern drifting behind them like a loyal firefly. He listened as she spoke of her days—of the herbal shop she now ran, the stubborn apprentice who kept mislabeling nightshade as mint, and the festivals she attended alone, pretending she didn’t scan every crowd for a face she knew would never be there.

Aerith told her about the lake’s memory—the way it saw centuries as easily as ripples. How it whispered to him of fishermen casting hopes into the water, lovers carving initials into bark, and storms that once shook the mountains to their bones.

“Lyra,” he said softly after a long silence, “do you ever wish… that you could stay here, with me?”

Her heart clenched. “Every day.”

“Then perhaps—”

“No.” She shook her head. “I know what you’re thinking.”

To bind herself to Evermere would mean giving up the world of the living. Becoming like him. A spirit of water and memory. Neither mortal nor free.

Aerith looked away, pain rippling across his face like shadow on water. “I want you without asking you to give up the sun.”

“And I want you without stealing you from the lake.”

They both laughed—a sad, shared sound.

Hours passed, soft and golden. They danced barefoot at the edge of the water, and when the lantern dimmed, Aerith pressed his forehead to hers.

“Time is thinning,” he murmured.

Lyra swallowed. “Come back to me when the veil opens again.”

“I always do.”

He kissed her—light as a promise, warm as a sunrise she wished would never end—and the moment he stepped back, his form shimmered.

The lantern’s flame drifted into the lake. Aerith followed, dissolving into silver.

Lyra stood alone on the shore, moonlight holding her like a quiet embrace.

“I’ll be waiting,” she whispered.

And Evermere rippled, as if answering her vow.