There is an ecstasy that marks the summit of life,
and beyond which life cannot rise
and beyond which life cannot rise
My entire life, up until this point, has been a compiled list of practicalities. The careful classroom lectures and the even more carefully practiced meditation, pushed upon me by Vespera’s monks. You must control your emotions, prince, and through your emotions your magic. If you do not, you will hurt someone. I remember between flitting blurs of my wings and hers beyond the first time I burned Gunhilde in a childish fit; the lash of raw energy, formed like a whip in my rage. She had cried, after—and my father had scolded me with calm patience, and said, I know it is difficult to try and control a thing you cannot yet understand—
Outside of that, those careful lectures and more careful meditations, I have spent innumerable hours admiring the Halcyon’s deft flight from afar—memorizing their strategic formations and their flight patterns, as if through memory and study alone I might become them. I had watched my mother apply her warpaint with bright, eager eyes—and tried to ignore the whispers of others my age who accused me of faking my god-given marks, as if stealing the valor of the Halcyon soldiers—
For once, however, the responsibilities are shed from my shoulders. For once, however, I am nothing but this moment and these deliberate movements—and then even the deliberation abandons me, and the dance becomes something both similar and unrecognizable from my meditation. I am my breath, and my heartbeat, and the sand underfoot—I am the hot wind against my wings, and the rising of a sandwyrm’s spine just beneath the surface of the sand—the sudden elation of fear that vanishes as Diana’s words repeat themselves, unbidden, in my mind. Nobody would be scared of something you know won’t hurt you. In this instance, I know, with a confidence uncommon in me—
And then she is stopping in front of me, an abrupt and nearly unnatural halt to her dance. I throw up my wings to avoid colliding; and with practiced grace, I descend half the dune with the hot, rising current of air to push me off. I circle back to land beside her, marveling at the patterns of the sandwyrms as they continue their dance.
I do not break her silence; even if I wanted to, I doubt that I could. I am too enchanted by the beasts as they follow the rising sun and disappear—my body is warm with the dance, my wings fatigued in a way that feels fresh, and new, like a growing thing. I feel her gaze on me; but I do not turn to meet it, not yet, because—
Well, the peace I had felt is gone as abruptly as it had appeared.
I cannot look at the rising sun and think of anything except for my father and the stories he used to tell, of the sea, of stars, of old nature gods. I cannot look at the rising sun and not think of the mark at his brow, radiant as a sunrise even in the dark.
(I cannot look at the rising sun and help but half-remember the dream of my life, the dream that visits me, of the white stallion on the black beach and the way that, sometimes, the sun comes up through the mist—)
So, little falcon. I had almost forgotten I was not alone.
I turn to her with none of the confidence from before.
But I like to be called little falcon; and the fondness for the term evokes a slight, self-conscious smile at the edge of my mouth. I do not know how to answer her question, at first.
I want to say Only Aeneas, but feel as if that is not what she is asking.
And so I say the only other thing that sounds true. “A chimera.”
Pieces of a multitude. Belonging to none. Dusk, and Day. The boldness of the dance; the secrecy of my spoken confession. I already feel uncomfortable in this skin, and this life—and I know the journey was for nothing, in that I could not find my father hidden among the dunes—
But perhaps, not for nothing.
I glance at her, and think she appears to be a statue under the harsh light of Solis’ gaze. I wonder if she looks like a statue int he quiet of Vespera, or the softness of Caligo. I nearly ask; but don’t. Her eyes are hard blue; her horns spiraled and gold. She does not look like a girl, although logic suggests she cannot be much younger than myself.
“My father—he was covered in gold, too. He told me once, when I asked why he had chosen to mark himself in such a way, that where he is from it is a way to bind a Soul. Soldiers painted him in something like gold, until it set in his skin, and made his Soul too heavy to leave his body.” I don’t know why I say it; I am embarrassed, immediately, by the confession. I amend, awkwardly, my words falling over themselves: “I do not mean to say that happened to you—no, you seem all Soul.”
I should have stopped at the story about my father. He is still too fresh on my mind. He is still too close to my heart, and my sadness—the air around me cracks with sudden, chaotic energy. The aura I had held, light silver, turns as bright red as arterial spray. I clear my throat. “And who do you claim to be?” I return her own question, albeit much more lamely. I do not look at her fully; not in the way she looks at me, as unabashed as a tigress. I glance at her from the sides of my eyes, and look instead into the endless desert.
☾
Outside of that, those careful lectures and more careful meditations, I have spent innumerable hours admiring the Halcyon’s deft flight from afar—memorizing their strategic formations and their flight patterns, as if through memory and study alone I might become them. I had watched my mother apply her warpaint with bright, eager eyes—and tried to ignore the whispers of others my age who accused me of faking my god-given marks, as if stealing the valor of the Halcyon soldiers—
For once, however, the responsibilities are shed from my shoulders. For once, however, I am nothing but this moment and these deliberate movements—and then even the deliberation abandons me, and the dance becomes something both similar and unrecognizable from my meditation. I am my breath, and my heartbeat, and the sand underfoot—I am the hot wind against my wings, and the rising of a sandwyrm’s spine just beneath the surface of the sand—the sudden elation of fear that vanishes as Diana’s words repeat themselves, unbidden, in my mind. Nobody would be scared of something you know won’t hurt you. In this instance, I know, with a confidence uncommon in me—
And then she is stopping in front of me, an abrupt and nearly unnatural halt to her dance. I throw up my wings to avoid colliding; and with practiced grace, I descend half the dune with the hot, rising current of air to push me off. I circle back to land beside her, marveling at the patterns of the sandwyrms as they continue their dance.
I do not break her silence; even if I wanted to, I doubt that I could. I am too enchanted by the beasts as they follow the rising sun and disappear—my body is warm with the dance, my wings fatigued in a way that feels fresh, and new, like a growing thing. I feel her gaze on me; but I do not turn to meet it, not yet, because—
Well, the peace I had felt is gone as abruptly as it had appeared.
I cannot look at the rising sun and think of anything except for my father and the stories he used to tell, of the sea, of stars, of old nature gods. I cannot look at the rising sun and not think of the mark at his brow, radiant as a sunrise even in the dark.
(I cannot look at the rising sun and help but half-remember the dream of my life, the dream that visits me, of the white stallion on the black beach and the way that, sometimes, the sun comes up through the mist—)
So, little falcon. I had almost forgotten I was not alone.
I turn to her with none of the confidence from before.
But I like to be called little falcon; and the fondness for the term evokes a slight, self-conscious smile at the edge of my mouth. I do not know how to answer her question, at first.
I want to say Only Aeneas, but feel as if that is not what she is asking.
And so I say the only other thing that sounds true. “A chimera.”
Pieces of a multitude. Belonging to none. Dusk, and Day. The boldness of the dance; the secrecy of my spoken confession. I already feel uncomfortable in this skin, and this life—and I know the journey was for nothing, in that I could not find my father hidden among the dunes—
But perhaps, not for nothing.
I glance at her, and think she appears to be a statue under the harsh light of Solis’ gaze. I wonder if she looks like a statue int he quiet of Vespera, or the softness of Caligo. I nearly ask; but don’t. Her eyes are hard blue; her horns spiraled and gold. She does not look like a girl, although logic suggests she cannot be much younger than myself.
“My father—he was covered in gold, too. He told me once, when I asked why he had chosen to mark himself in such a way, that where he is from it is a way to bind a Soul. Soldiers painted him in something like gold, until it set in his skin, and made his Soul too heavy to leave his body.” I don’t know why I say it; I am embarrassed, immediately, by the confession. I amend, awkwardly, my words falling over themselves: “I do not mean to say that happened to you—no, you seem all Soul.”
I should have stopped at the story about my father. He is still too fresh on my mind. He is still too close to my heart, and my sadness—the air around me cracks with sudden, chaotic energy. The aura I had held, light silver, turns as bright red as arterial spray. I clear my throat. “And who do you claim to be?” I return her own question, albeit much more lamely. I do not look at her fully; not in the way she looks at me, as unabashed as a tigress. I glance at her from the sides of my eyes, and look instead into the endless desert.
@Diana"speaks" space for notes
