“What’s this one called?” Prouvaire pointed at a collection of stars with one hand, propped up his head with the other.
Combeferre raised an eyebrow. “You were just telling me this morning about the Northern Hemisphere in mid-August.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“Ophiuchus. Do you know the myth?”
Prouvaire giggled. “You know it. I know you know it, because I’ve seen your bookshelf, and because I’ve told it so many times.”
“Yes, my dear, but you tell it beautifully. I’ve heard it so many times, but I’d listen to it so many more.” There was silence, and Combeferre watched as Prouvaire pretended to consider, and took his hand. Prouvaire turned his head to look at Combeferre, and, seeing his pleading eyes, made a sound halfway between a sigh and a laugh.
“Alright. Ophiuchus, being born of Apollo, and being raised by Chiron, became the most skilled healer around. Once, he was sent for by the king, who he found in a state of despair, for his son had drowned in a cask of honey. The king wanted nothing more than for his child to be healed.”
“But the babe was dead.”
Prouvaire hummed before continuing, his voice soft and melodious. “As Ophiuchus examined the child’s body, hoping to find some impossible way to heal him, a snake made its way up to the child. Ophiuchus struck it dead with his staff. A second snake appeared, and Ophiuchus prepared once again to strike, but then noticed that the snake carried a leaf. It put the leaf on the dead snake, who revived. Ophiuchus took the leaf, placed it on the child, and the child breathed.”
Combeferre watched Prouvaire, who paused to watch the stars. “Not long after, Hades caught word of this impossible healer, for now that Ophiuchus knew how to raise the dead, people called on him more than ever. Being ruler of the Underworld, he realized that if Ophiuchus continued like this, no new souls would enter his realm. He told Zeus, who struck Ophiuchus down with a thunderbolt. And then—oh, Combeferre, don’t ever learn to raise the dead! It’s a mess. There’s consequences, always.”
“I solemnly swear, my dear, that my profession shall never incorporate necromancy.”
“Even in the presence of the first king of Crete?”
Combeferre smiled. “Yes, even then.” He kissed Prouvaire’s hand. “Continue?”
Prouvaire held Combeferre’s gaze for a moment, and then, apparently satisfied with this promise, turned his attention back to the sky. “Apollo heard of this, and was so enraged that he killed the three cyclopses who made Zeus’s thunderbolts, for he could not kill Zeus himself. Zeus, realizing he had made a mistake, but refusing, under the circumstances, to raise the dead, instead placed Ophiuchus among the stars, where he is immortal.”
Combeferre watched Prouvaire for a few moments of enraptured silence, before Prouvaire noticed and turned to him. “What?”
“You.”
“Me what?”
“ You .”
Prouvaire let out a huff of laughter, moved closer to kiss Combeferre’s forehead. They both turned back to the night sky. Prouvaire pointed and said:
"Tell me about Libra.”