it is easy to go down into hell
Aeneas watches the Halcyon practice. He is far away, at the lower edge of the cliffs, staring up at the soldiers as they perform acrobatics and other aerial maneuvers. They brandish wooden swords and spears and, when the wind blows right, Aeneas can hear the harsh clack of the training equipment as it strikes wood, or the dull and heavy smack of it against flesh or bone as they spar. One Pegasus is struck at the wing joint and Aeneas watches from afar as the soldier begins to spiral down, down, down. The sight is at once unbearable and impossible to break his gaze from—Aeneas’s heart is in his throat and he wonders what he should do but remains frozen in fear. The descent is abruptly ended, however, when the Pegasus tilts his wings and regains altitude after the pain of the blow subsides. Even from here, Aeneas can her the disjointed call of the soldier’s voice to his sparring companion, but he cannot register the words.
He had been told he could play along the cliffs, so long as he kept his distance and remained careful. But after observing such a feat of fearlessness, Aeneas feels emboldened. He steps closer to the edge, just a bit, to peep over the side—
The cliffside gives way beneath his weight. If Aeneas were older, and had more experience, he might have recognised the shale where he stood, the fragile and separated stone not meant to bare a load. But Aeneas is not wiser and the ground drops out from beneath him with a stomach-churning abruptness. He has no opportunity to stumble back, or regain his footing, before the entire world cartwheels before his eyes. It becomes sky-land-sea-sky and then a sudden, jarring halt as he slams onto a ledge beneath where he stood. It takes him several long moments to regain his breath; it’s been pushed forcefully from his lungs by the impact.
When he does, he feels terribly alone. The winter sea is stark beneath him, punctuated by the jagged rocks protruding from its turbulent surface. Everything is grey, from the overcast clouds to the sea to the rock beside him. Aeneas swallows and stretches his wings, taking inventory of whether or not he hurt himself beyond repair. There is a tight catching at his wing joint, but it feels more sore than anything else. The problem, however, is that he has not learned yet how to fly.
Why else would he be on a cliffside, jealously watching his mother’s Halycon? He rests there for a long moment before gathering the courage to call out. “H-hello?” Aeneas’s voice cracks through with fear. “H-hello? I-Is anyone there to help m-me?”
The sea answers, and the gulls answer, but Aeneas does not yet hear a voice. He gazes up from where he had fallen, only to find a sheer cliffside with little footholds or crannies upon which to climb.
but to climb back up again
to retrace one's steps to the upper air
there's the rub
