The power of the opal (Nameless)

(Older than the hills, this story is.(from 11/29/10) I am one who has many head-books in her heart, none of them written down entirely, mostly condensed into short stories or poems, or nothing but ideas. This one was inspired by a dream, loosely inspired. All that was in the dream is merely mentioned in the story. More of an epilogue to the dream, really. It's been in my drafts for a while, so today I decided to touch it up a bit and just post it. Not a bad piece of flash fiction, terribly sentimental and saccharine, but I've chosen not to care too much.)

They watched the lights play out in the night sky as he held her in his arms. 
It was the end of all they had known, and what they had known was not pleasant. The pleasant times were to come in the many years ahead of them. 
    He looked down into her eyes.
    "What's the moral of this story?" He asked, his eyes searching her pale face as he tilted her chin toward the sky.
    She regarded his satin-blue eyes, and seemed to consider her reply for a short time. At last she spoke,

    "Why should there be a moral?" She questioned in turn, 

    He laughed, "Ah, I am afraid I do not know, I guess we'll just leave that to the bards, the poets, and the harpists."
    They laid down together on the dewed and singed grass. The flashing lights drew to an end as they slept against each other's shoulders. 

A few years later, after the the time of hard work and diligence in the building of their new civilization had come to an end, they took their evening walk, and 

she found a paper pasted to a stone wall. 
    "Look," She told him, indicating the paper with her outstretched finger, "Someone has written about our adventures." She gazed wonderingly at the paper, her head tilted to one side.
    "Why would someone write of us and post it in such a public place?" He wondered.
    "It is strange, Isn't it?" she said, her hair shone in the late afternoon light, "I've read the news my entire life, but I've always thought stories should be told out loud by a bard, or a poet. They give so much more life to the characters, the places and the deeds."
    The man peered closer at the paper.
    "'By Bartholemew St. James', do you suppose that's the Bartholemew St. James? That crazy old monk you used to know?"
    "It could be," She replied, also peering closer, her eyes narrowed in thought, "That's definitely the way he spelled his name." She giggled, holding her hand to her mouth.
    "It certainly merits a reading, then." 
    They both stood in front of the red-brick wall, holding hands, motionless and attentive for some time.
    Soon the sun began to set behind the mountains, causing glorious angel-pathways (as she called the beams of light that shot from the clouds) to dart out all over the darkening sky. After some time spent in silence, the two of them came to the end of the story. 
    They slowly turned and looked at each other with wonder and satisfaction on their rose and umber light-tinted faces.
    "I rather liked that moral." He said.
    "The ending was best." She agreed.