(no subject)

[the_cupbearer]

On the darkest, longest night of the year, Ganymede rarely sleeps. He mostly waits, patiently anticipating the return of the sun, admittedly weak but bringing life-giving warmth nonetheless. There used to be parties for this, loud and raucous ones with music and drinking and merriment to chase away the cold night, full of the terrifying unknown. There will be one later: even when he came through the bar things were being made ready for the merriment of spirits, the celebration of having turned in the year's cycle, ready to begin again.

But right now, in the icy, inky pre-dawn dark, there is just Ganymede. Alone, hands in his coat pockets as he watches the multiverse of stars blink and shine.

He whistles a low, gently crooning and faintly haunting song, as if to push back the darkness for another year.