Elli. I told you to call me Elli. His smile falters, but only briefly. It occurs to Aeneas, suddenly, that they have both grown. He is taller than her where, before, they had been of one height. It is a strange acknowledgement; that he is looking down as she is looking up beneath her lashes, to reprimand him so gently. The smile returns, apologetic, for Aeneas to amend: “Elli.” The only way to describe his tone, his demeanor, is sweet.
(Aeneas also realizes this is the first time since his father’s disappearance he has forgotten his grief, however briefly. In those seconds he was drawn from his bed to his window to beyond, he had been free of the pain, the anguish—and then he chooses, decisively, to keep it at bay just a bit longer. Elliana is in front of him, with the promise of adventure, the promise of storybooks and paintings, the promise of—)
Of something other than sadness.
When he is older, he might think back on this moment. On the way his energy is light as air, and his heart is light as air, and he is light as air. He might remember how she had seen him disheveled and taken aback; his hair falls wildly into his too-wide, too-bright eyes. I want to show you something. Follow me. One day, he might remember this, and he might wonder why we meet the people we do. Why paths intersect. The meaning that one person might have.
Aeneas only nods, afraid if he were to speak, the magic might run. He follows her then, from the citadel to the city streets; and as they navigate them, he catches glimpses of a Terrastella he has never known before. The city is different as it sleeps; the quiet sentinels might watch their shadows flit by, but they do not stop their passage. What Aeneas marvels at most, however, is the quiet—nearly serene—energy that inhabits Terrastella at night. He knows it is a land of dreams, and when they weave beyond the city into the fields, Aeneas begins to hear it.
At first, he thinks it is the dreaming—the quiet whir, the energy of many sleeping, the monsters and triumphs of their night ventures. But as they continue through the fields, her shoulder against his, he realizes the sound is growing louder outside the city. Want to see a secret?
“Yes,” Aeneas says, unflinchingly. He is too full of wonder to stop himself; he is too desperate to seize this moment, this moment of joy, to let it slip away, to live it any less earnestly. Perhaps, that is where he will learn his love of secrets; perhaps in this moment all of Vespera’s mysticism and secrecy imbeds plants itself in his soul and begins to grow.
The young prince follows her to a wall of foliage he believes impenetrable—and then she draws a curtain of ivy away, and they are plunging deeper into the trees than he had ever been before. They enter a meadow beyond, and he cannot keep the awe that begins to color his face. The meadow is lit by dancing, whirring lights—and at first he thinks, again, it must be the energy of dreams—
Because if dreams had a color, had one energy, this would be it. His eyes go up, up, up to watch the butterflies as they dance in spirals. But there is a girl. There is a girl, warm and small and quiet, and she too is a magic thing. Aeneas glances at her—down, again, down so that she is looking up and he is meeting her eyes and holding them, to say: “They are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”
Aeneas cranes his head up, and wants to follow them; his wings stir at his sides, but even as they do he turns to regard her. There is something abashed in his tone when he asks her, “Do you think they are real?”
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
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
