Life will do so much to them; life has already done so much to them. His father has already left, and hers is already a half-lie. There is so much waiting to unfold; penance for their parents, or simply the other clawed hands of fate. Children never know, however, how these demons wait from the shadows, beckoning. Come closer, and though they do not hear the call through their optimism and ignorance, they are already moving that direction. Toward tragedy. Disappointment. Betrayal. Pain. Expectations that fall short of what they were meant to be.
Sometimes, towards love. Sometimes, towards hate.
Oh, to keep it back—to keep this baying back. The only thing to do is to live, wide-eyed and with wonder, for as long as they can. They are so young in that field; so lit up by the moon, by the stars, by the butterflies in their swarm. This is a memory that will last a lifetime; it might be even one that defines him, young and naive and wanting to understand the largeness of life.
Secrets, she says to him. And all of this—this entire field—has become a secret, he thinks. The shadows, she says, tell secrets. She is looking at him in that too-heavy, too-intense way of hers and Aeneas is looking back, but for once his expression is difficult to read. (This, too, will come with life; when he learns he wants to be a warrior; when he learns sometimes, sometimes, feelings are a disadvantage). “Elli? Do you think… you could let me know if you ever talk to my dad? Do you think you could promise that?” It is the first time I have mentioned him to her, although I wonder if she’s known, all along.
Enjoy the magic tonight, Aeneas. He smile—but despite the seriousness of her words he steps closer to her, and leans against her shoulder. Aeneas extends one wing and draws her in, so they are standing side-by-side before the light show. They have begun their dance again. They are more beautiful than anything else he has ever seen. Except, maybe—
His eyes are on her. “Elli? If I can bring it back, it’s only because you’ve showed me what it is.”
The quiet stretches a moment while they watch. In the silence, the wings create their own sympathy; it sounds a little like water, he thinks, or wind through the trees. “Should we be going home, you think? Or should we—should we watch until dawn?”
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
