A
eneas wishes he understood how she is both sharp and soft at the same time. He has always felt as if he is a contradiction, but does not look it. But she wears pollen as if she herself is a flower; and still, the point of her horn gleams with a curious threat. I can only grow flowers from the death of yours, she says, and Aeneas finds it at once dark and enchanting. “I picked them,” he says. “They’re already dead.” The words sound so matter-of-fact they do not belong in Aeneas’ mouth. Aeneas, the dreamer. Aeneas, the boy of stars and sun. Aeneas, the twilight prince. What right does the word dead have to exist from his lips? He is not surprised when, deftly and without effort, she beheads the flowers he offers. As they fall with dull—nearly silent—thuds, he watches in amazement as a new garden begins to grow. He knows it is not a secret; but for a moment, as he watches with wonder, it feels like one.
“Does it make you sad?” Aeneas asks, suddenly. “Does it make you sad, your magic kills to live?”
Lost girl, lost girl. Does it hurt to kill?
Aeneas does not succeed in hiding the slight desperation in his voice. He wants to know because at night when he goes to the window and stares at the stars, he can feel the heartbeat of the universe and how each star has the potential to become a great void, too heavy for light, too heavy for life. He looks at her too intensely, too curiously.
He wants to hear talk of magic that does not come from a priest’s mouth.
the boy who looks all soft and angel doesn't make it out alive
