If Aeneas could read her thoughts, he might reassure her. He might say, I could never do to someone else what has been done to me, even to a lesser degree. He might say, I could never leave like my father left. It is true that wings are made for flying; they are made for soaring high above and away, for crossing vast distances; for kissing the no-man’s-land between stars and earth. But when Aeneas thinks of his wings, he does not think of them in such a capacity. They are not an escape. They are merely a means to an end. Perhaps it is unromantic, and even utilitarian, but he looks at his wings and his heart wells with the same sense of adventure that a boy feels when he sees a sword. 

Not a map, to distant lands.

(Why would he want those, when everything he has ever loved, ever wanted, has always been here? He is not like other boys. The idea of leaving Terrastella breaks his heart). 

As she repeats her nickname, Aeneas is smiling again. It seems a private thing, between the two of them, and he is grateful for it. He wishes he had something to give her, to reciprocate the intimacy; a name only for her. 

I think magic was born here, she tells him. 

Aeneas does not look at the magic thing when she says it; he looks at her. He does not smile now. (Perhaps they are alike in the differences between themselves and their parents; Orestes would have smiled, in that moment). Aeneas, instead, seems almost somber. He nods in agreement, before his eyes catch the movement and are gone again. She leans against him. The magic, at once, is a draw to something beyond—and she remains a tether to what is. 

“Yes,” Aeneas answers, almost breathlessly. He is awestruck by them. They are luminous and, in their flight, nearly incomprehensible. For a boy who has not yet seen fall—who has seen, comparatively, so few things—he has no point of reference, no point of comparison. He might say they are like fall leaves, falling up instead of down. But he has never seen autumn, and cannot say. 

Aeneas’ eyes remain on the scene as she continues to speak. He is taken aback, however, by her commentary. “But—Elli. You have made something this beautiful. Your paintings are still-shots of moments like this.” His voice is thoughtful, and appreciative. He cannot help but remember her painting him, and if not for his dark complexion, his face would have flushed. 

“I—I do. Wish that, I mean.” 

Aeneas is quiet, then. He is watching them as they go up, up, up and then swirl back down. Sometimes, they settle in the field. Above them, the moon winks and the stars gleam like shattered glass. Aeneas closes his eyes. He feels it—the energy in this place. The way Elli is bright beside him; the butterflies, and their magic; the stars, and their shining. He feels powerful; but what is different than usual is the lightness. All this energy is passing through him and none of it is negative; none of it is dark; none of it is caustic. 

With his eyes closed, Aeneas begins to paint a picture. It begins in front of them, a butterfly the color of starlight. But then it grows, and grows, and grows, and those wings warp and that body warps and the thing is light becomes a lion. It is Ariel as he remembers him, but blanched, turned the color of silver-gold that exists only when Aeneas is in his most peaceful state. The lion, made of cosmic energy, walks into the center of the field and in a series of bounds follows the butterflies into the sky. Once there, he dissipates into fragments of light and then is gone. 

Beneath Aeneas’ feet, the grass has wilted. 

He opens his eyes, having not seen any of it, but having known it was beautiful. He looks beneath his feet, however, and then to the butterflies again. “I wonder—do you think anything beautiful can happen without something ugly existing, too?” 

Aeneas is shy in the way he looks at her now; he know she is as old as he, and there is no way for her to know more profoundly the answer. Somehow—and perhaps this is how it will always be, between them—he feels she is the wiser of the two, the more aware. 

He lets that silence grow long and comfortable, too. The butterflies are settling; their undulations of flight have become dances. “Do you have magic, Elli?” Aeneas cannot help but ask. She has never spoken of it, that he knows of. But there is something in her demeanor—and the cosmic energy, the tie to her and the universe—that he feels is different. 


   

      Aeneas
      you long to be just honeyed skin and soft curls, but beneath it all, your blood boils fiercely; you were born with heaven and hell already in you, holy fire, hell fire
   

elliana
—
« ♡ »