tell me father,
what to ask forgiveness for:
what I am, or what I am not?
what to ask forgiveness for:
what I am, or what I am not?
She is all things real, earthly; he feels it, in the way she makes the flowers grow and the space between them dissipate. There might be a day when Aeneas remembers this meeting in the garden of marble statues; there might be a day when he thinks back to this moment, and he acknowledges it as a transition, as the moment he realizes that he is both a boy and a star and an exploding sun, a forgotten planet, a black hole aching and aching and aching to be filled—
She makes him feel that, in the unnerving measure of her eyes and the way she is not light or dark but a strange sort of hunger; he feels it like the absence of positive energy or negative energy, like the growth of something neutral, indifferent, and yet—it is wanting, he knows, and that wanting opens up within him a need to fill, a need to—
“Danaë.” Aeneas breathes, and the light gold of his glowing marks illuminates them both. He has never been touched by someone outside of his family, he thinks; it is colder than he expects, her cheek against his own, and he closes his eyes.
Yes—
Sometimes, light is just meant to illuminate the dark. His wings flutter uselessly at his shoulders, reminding him, you too are magic. Aeneas opens his eyes; his smile has faltered, but it is only because he does not have a way to express the building thing within him, a thing like light—she is asking him a question, and to his mind it does not, at first, make sense.
In childhood’s naïveté, Aeneas turns away in wonder to admire the roses as they unfurl. Her horn is only a unicorn’s horn against him, just as when he steps aside his pegasus feathers are only feathers against her—or so he thinks, ignorant to weapons, ignorant to death (beside the death of space, the death of cosmos, the death of disappearance—)
He turns to glance at her with a smile renewed. “Only,” he promises. “If you came with me, Danaë.” And her name is a rose, too, unfurling in his mouth. It seems wrong to glance at her magic and say aloud, If only I could create such things!
Instead, Aeneas takes a breath, having forgotten his earlier negativity and angst. He glances over the edge of the balcony, beyond the statues, toward a night sky shattered by silver stars.
When he glances back, it is to construct them overhead with a flash of radiant silver-gold energy. The stars are among them, and when he flutters his wings, he dusts her. “Why would you tell me to run?” he asks, not understanding.
Because, after all, that is the way of innocent things.
The way of the fawn underfoot the wolf, not even having yet learned to quiver in fear.
She makes him feel that, in the unnerving measure of her eyes and the way she is not light or dark but a strange sort of hunger; he feels it like the absence of positive energy or negative energy, like the growth of something neutral, indifferent, and yet—it is wanting, he knows, and that wanting opens up within him a need to fill, a need to—
“Danaë.” Aeneas breathes, and the light gold of his glowing marks illuminates them both. He has never been touched by someone outside of his family, he thinks; it is colder than he expects, her cheek against his own, and he closes his eyes.
Yes—
Sometimes, light is just meant to illuminate the dark. His wings flutter uselessly at his shoulders, reminding him, you too are magic. Aeneas opens his eyes; his smile has faltered, but it is only because he does not have a way to express the building thing within him, a thing like light—she is asking him a question, and to his mind it does not, at first, make sense.
In childhood’s naïveté, Aeneas turns away in wonder to admire the roses as they unfurl. Her horn is only a unicorn’s horn against him, just as when he steps aside his pegasus feathers are only feathers against her—or so he thinks, ignorant to weapons, ignorant to death (beside the death of space, the death of cosmos, the death of disappearance—)
He turns to glance at her with a smile renewed. “Only,” he promises. “If you came with me, Danaë.” And her name is a rose, too, unfurling in his mouth. It seems wrong to glance at her magic and say aloud, If only I could create such things!
Instead, Aeneas takes a breath, having forgotten his earlier negativity and angst. He glances over the edge of the balcony, beyond the statues, toward a night sky shattered by silver stars.
When he glances back, it is to construct them overhead with a flash of radiant silver-gold energy. The stars are among them, and when he flutters his wings, he dusts her. “Why would you tell me to run?” he asks, not understanding.
Because, after all, that is the way of innocent things.
The way of the fawn underfoot the wolf, not even having yet learned to quiver in fear.
