come away, o child
to the waters and the wild
Aeneas is still not accustomed to his magic; even if it was born with him, he more often feels he is a part of it rather than it being a part of him. She almost smiles, but Aeneas is not fooled; he looks beyond her shoulder to the woman painted on the rock and his own lips draw into a bewildered line.He does not mean to. But when she says painting as if she does not quite want him here, the grass at his feet wilts and blackens.
“Aeneas,” he answers, with a smile that is not quite shy but is not bold, either. I don’t know if I would like having wings very much.
Now, he frowns. He steps back; the grass wilts more readily. The aura of his body turns reddish, bright like light through a ruby. “Oh,” Aeneas answers. “Well, I like them. But I can’t use them yet.”
Aeneas takes a few steadying breaths; he focuses, as the priests tell him to, on the physical aspects of his body. On the rhythmic draw of his breath. The cool air in his lungs. The way the sun does not quite warm him, and when the breeze blows, he feels cold.
“Why wouldn’t you like wings, Elli?”
Aeneas doesn’t know what to think of the painting.
But the glow from his tattoos turns brighter, less tinted.
with a fairy, hand in hand
for the world is more full of weeping
than you can understand
