P
rinces are born to look out citadel windows with wide-eyes at late hours, dreaming of all they might accomplish. Fantasizing of becoming Halcyon on the cliffsides and what it would be like to walk through the streets not at Orestes’ heir or Marisol’s son, but as a boy. Princes are born for dreaming, and living jewel-bright and promising lives.And so Aeneas only lives up to his heritage the night he stares from his windowsill toward a sleeping Terrastella and a lulling sea. From this vantage, he can see the austere face of the cliffs and a very slight clip of ocean. From his vantage, the ocean manifests only as a vast and terrifying darkness. The moon is not full and so the land beneath him stretches stark and somewhat forlorn. When the stars emerge, slowly at first and then with a vibrancy that seems abrupt, Aeneas feels awestruck. His magic hums within him; the young prince leans his face against the citadel glass, and—
He cannot stay confined. It is with practice care that he opens the window and steps from it as if weightless. It is with practice care that Aeneas abandons the citadel and flies further, further, until he is soaring above the cliffs, a mere outline against the sky.
Distant, but not too distant, he sees a silhouette moving through the tall grass near the cliff’s edge. He watches them curiously, in a way that he often does. (Aeneas frequently journeys at night and watches, curiously and through distance, the goings on of his Court and his home). This, however, is different. She does not practice care as she reaches the cliff’s edge, and Aeneas opens his mouth to shout but he is already too late.
The plummets from the edge.
No!
He thinks if he were faster, older, he would have already been there to save her; but he is not faster, he is not older. Even so, he flies as quickly as he is able. Out, and out, and out and then with a swift descent. He tucks his wings and dives, searching with bright, acute eyes for movement, for the head above the water—
He sees her resurface—miraculously, through the jagged rocks—just as he throws out his wings and glides above the turbulent waves.
Aeneas does not expect to recognize her, as the water sweeps her under again. “Elli!” He screams, where she had been silent.
The prince rushes closer, but he is no longer practiced, her is no longer curiously distanced. This is real, and this is painful, and he is full of panic. He desperately searches the water, flying just a wingbeat above it. There! She resurfaces—
“Elli!” Aeneas screams again. He flies closer, but fears if they are both in the water he might not have the strength to save her. “Elli! Grab my leg, let me—let me help you to shore!” But the waves are battering; they unpredictably rise and fall, splashing brine against him.
In that moment, a wave rushes forward and takes him under as well.
the boy who looks all soft and angel doesn't make it out alive
