prayed to keep my soul
S
he knows what her mother would do if she saw his smile falter on his young face. She would smile wider, more beautiful, to try to lift it back. But Elli is not her mother, so her lips only tilt downwards in his direction. She offers little in the way of comfort, she has never been so attune to the needs of the living. Their physicality, their facial expressions, their words that say one thing but mean another entirely. The dead do not have needs for such deceit and secrets, they tell her what burdens their souls, they have no choice—she is the only one willing to listen. “Elli,” she says in response to him. He looks so much taller here, as she looks up at him. She thinks of the sky again, thinks about how he will fly into it and leave her behind. She has yet to decide what she will do when that day comes. Will she wave goodbye? Chase his shadow for as far as she can? Or throw herself over the cliff side, hoping her prayers turn into wings? Her father had tried to get her to dance with the other children at the Tulip Festival, tried to get her to join in their games, their groups, but Elli was never made to dance among the masses, not like her mother was (her mother who could dance and make the whole world stop). No, she was meant for this sort of dancing, through cobblestone streets, twirling in and out of shadows. All with the lightness of a boy’s hand in her own. She doesn't care if he doesn't know the steps, she would dance for the both of them.
Want to see a secret? She will ask him. This is the first time.
It will not be the last time.
“I think magic was born here,” she says, expecting him to laugh at her, but knowing he wont (or maybe it is just dreaming, just wishing, just believing.) He is looking up, up and away and fear clutches her heart for just a moment. Would he fly? Would he leave her? Was this it? But then with just a glance he returns to her and she catches him with blue eyes, drawing him back to her. Gotcha, she wants to whisper like a child catching butterflies in a secret garden.
His wings flutter next to her and she leans her small body against him, her own way of asking him to still, to remain beside her. Elli perhaps of all people has never thought a question to be silly. Because they ask her, the shadows, they ask her so many questions she does not have answers to. (Where is my mom?) (I am scared to close my eyes, what if they don’t open?) (Did my baby ever make it?) (What happened to my locket, did someone find it?)
“Do you want them to be?” She asks him, furrowing her forehead at him with her question. “I painted them once,” she says, turning to look out at them again. “But I wish I could make something this beautiful,” she says longingly. “Don’t you? Wish you could make something this beautiful?” She asks because she cannot make anything, she can only listen, listen, listen.
Even when she doesn't want to.
@Aeneas elliana speaks
elliana
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