Her death hit in waves. Not a flood, but water lapping steadily at her ankles. You could drown in two inches of water. Maybe grief was the same.
The sun is overbearing, its unabashed sheen of light blinding to the eye and unforgiving, silvery-blonde hair catches in a slow, rolling desert breeze. She does not think for a moment that she is alone. Those dunes shift too much, they sing too loudly for her to ever imagine such a thing. So the sound of movement through sand is unsurprising to her.
“Hello,” she responds, her voice quiet and colored with a shade of wonder, “this world is so beautiful.” She says as a gentle murmur of the words she really wants to say, but once glance and she knows, this boy is not Aeneas. And she cannot tell this Not-Aeneas all the secrets of her heart, how she is dreaming up colors she has never seen before, only heard. How she wonders what the desert is thinking, how when she and Dune once went and listened to its shadows speak (it told her stories of spears, and queens, and battle cries, but it told her stories too of the innocent side winder mistaken for a monster, and the babies the desert bore). Maybe she could tell him, but she opens her mouth and she knows in an instant she cannot. There are fireflies caught in the back of her throat.
“It’s lovely,” she says instead to Not-Aeneas, in her voice of Dusk fog. “The desert,” she says and for the first time turns blue eyes to him. They brighten against the color of the sand, and for once look like blue skies instead of winter frost. He looks warm, this boy, and she thinks, what a magnificent thing to be so warm. Does the sun kiss his skin every moment of every day? Or does it simply live buried beneath him? Elli ponders as she watches him. “I thought I might memorize its colors, build a sandcastle,” she says and sounds all at once too wise for her age, and incredibly childish at the same time, in the same words, and the same breath. “But the sun is…” she doesn't finish, just blinks pretty eyes. “What do you suppose I do?”
“Hello,” she responds, her voice quiet and colored with a shade of wonder, “this world is so beautiful.” She says as a gentle murmur of the words she really wants to say, but once glance and she knows, this boy is not Aeneas. And she cannot tell this Not-Aeneas all the secrets of her heart, how she is dreaming up colors she has never seen before, only heard. How she wonders what the desert is thinking, how when she and Dune once went and listened to its shadows speak (it told her stories of spears, and queens, and battle cries, but it told her stories too of the innocent side winder mistaken for a monster, and the babies the desert bore). Maybe she could tell him, but she opens her mouth and she knows in an instant she cannot. There are fireflies caught in the back of her throat.
“It’s lovely,” she says instead to Not-Aeneas, in her voice of Dusk fog. “The desert,” she says and for the first time turns blue eyes to him. They brighten against the color of the sand, and for once look like blue skies instead of winter frost. He looks warm, this boy, and she thinks, what a magnificent thing to be so warm. Does the sun kiss his skin every moment of every day? Or does it simply live buried beneath him? Elli ponders as she watches him. “I thought I might memorize its colors, build a sandcastle,” she says and sounds all at once too wise for her age, and incredibly childish at the same time, in the same words, and the same breath. “But the sun is…” she doesn't finish, just blinks pretty eyes. “What do you suppose I do?”
