Day was such a shallow thing. The love of day is something that, for its life, the young one could not understand. Why did they so flock to day, like birds flock to their home tree? Why worship the sun that scorched you with light, unmasking your every movement? The bright, dreary light of day held not depth, but an ever unchanging monotony. The only things more dreadful then the sweltering, trivial light itself were those forces of nature set to stop it- the massive, death-gray clouds, or the harsh, nail-biting rain. Sometimes, gray skies and venomous winds were all nature had left to rip apart the ever so persistent superficiality of day.

Day was not an emotional, mysterious creature-it was all too predictable. It was a fickle thing, ever too bright and distracting. It craved for attention, and thereby bathed the earth in its frivolity, spreading a horrible light across the gentle trees and lapping waves and demanding that no affair be held private. Indeed, not even the most humble of creatures could hide away from the cold, harsh light of day-little could hide one from the despicable, prudish beams of day. Day was far too narrow minded to concentrate on the wonders of the world-its light was not gentle enough. Oh no, it was far too harsh and uncaring, selfish and flustered. Its light did not cradle the earth gently in its grasp-instead, it choose to squeeze it and force acknowledgment upon it. Day was a needy, pathetic thing, taught its lesson only when the forces of nature put it back in place. Yet it still struggled to come back every morning, prissy little thing that it was.

Night was a completely different story.

The light that night held was perhaps the farthest one could get from the egotistical throes of day. Night was special because it produced both darkness and light-this made it a very talented thing. No greater a relief there was, thought the small fawn, then to watch as the harsh light of day was sucked into the crevices of the earth, throwing striking rays of purple and orange into the sky in protest. Not even it was a match for the wonders of the night.

Night was a patient thing; it would wait without qualms as its raucous counterpart struggled against the calendar of nature, throwing up blind beams and obfuscating the mind. Then, in the late hours, the pearly, freckled face of the moon would begin to rise; sometimes full, and sometimes wrapped in a cloak of shadow, as if curled up to sleep. Then the moon`s children would emerge-bright, twinkling dots of light. These little dots, in actuality, were likely brighter than the light of day-but they were humble and smart, and knew to keep a respectable distance from the earth, in order not to distract it with their shining rays of light. The overseer of the earth at this time was only the moon, and she did her job well. This gentle being would block the selfish rays of the sun, casting a far gentler, pulsing light that shone just enough not to disrupt the beings of the earth. The sky cloaked in a rich carpet of shade, the night would commence.

Why did they not revel of the marvels of the night? The fawn thought. Why not walk through the forest and watch as the wind, calmed by the peace of night, blew softly through the trees, gently rattling the leaves as it did? Why not stroll to the pond and take a step in, watch as the impossibly smooth mirror of the latter rippled beneath your feet? Day did not care for the pond- its rays scorched the hapless liquid right down to its sandy beds. Yet night gave the pond a proper sense of privacy, coating a beautiful smooth pelt on only its surface. Night cast gentle beams upon the trees, careful to leave enough space for the creatures within them to rest peacefully. Night was a lulling, wondrous thing, stocked to the brim with pure emotion. How could one not admire the beauty and modesty of the night-the careful care that it took upon the earth it watched?

Yet they fled from it. The fawn could not understand. Why flee in fear from such a wondrous thing, something that opened up so many possibilities? The grandeur of night filled you with such a strength, a wonder that spilled down into your entire being. Perhaps it was this occurrence, this beauteous phenomenon that brought forth the things they knew as dreams. Surely, to lull off to sleep in such a wondrous realm would bring some sort of dream, yes?

And still, they run from it-lured forth by the deceptive comfort of daylight. They yearned for it, flocked to it, seduced by the false promises it held. Day was not comforting; it was a manipulator.
Though, the fawn could understand why these poor, guileless creatures were drawn to the light. It was deceitful, a clever liar. After all, even the most selfish of sunbeams can draw forth most eyes at first glance.

That was when the fawn made it decision. Night was a wonderful thing, a specter not of fear, but of hope and possibility. One day, even the most naive would understand this.

So off it went, prancing through the forest as the others slept. It bounded through the grass, a faint, eager beacon running beneath the stars. It would bounce across to the figures of those who rested, trying to guess of their dreams. It would romp with those still awake, leading them along a path of the wonders of this nightly realm. It would become a nightling, the child of the night itself.

And this was the path of a night child, and of the endless goals it pursued. This was its mission, and nothing short of death could ever stop it. It would journey to and fro, leading others away from the day’s cruel phantasm and into the night’s phantasmagoria.



Sorry about this taking so long; the beginning of school and loss of muse is not a good combo. D| Hope you like it, though! C8