aeneas.
No, I have in my mind’s eye exactly where I need you.
My mother once told me that those born in winter are born older; winter is a time of revelation, of timelessness, of cycles. It can be a season of death, or of rebirth. Some of this I read; some of this I gathered on the long nights when I awoke, restless, and went to the window to peer at the snow-covered streets. My mother once told me that those born in winter are born wise.
I think, perhaps, that this applies more to Elliana than to me. No, I have in my mind’s eye exactly where I need you. She sounds busy and, even though she frees me of my placement, I linger a little longer. I can hear the paintbrush softly working; I can hear the wind through the trees; beyond the garden wall, I can even hear the distance voices of citizens as they go about their day’s work. My voice fills the silence, too—and this is uncharacteristic of me. I cannot remember a time when my voice filled anything in the chaos of my life. For a moment, brief and flitting, it is only the sound of my confession and accompanying shame.
They are only accidents, Aeneas.
I want to tell her she doesn’t understand. That she paints, and that I once burned my sister. I want to tell her how frightening it is when what I feel can cause an external reaction, one I have no control over, and the only way to mitigate it is to feel nothing at all—
But, for now, I let what she says comfort me. I can almost believe it in this quiet alcove. I turn and offer a grateful, quiet smile, at last abandoning my post to admire her work.
“The monks aren’t here,” I respond, mischievously.
I thought we had shared our space before; but when I stand besides her, our shoulders almost touching, our world grows even smaller again. It is cold enough my breath fogs the air; and hers too. I can see the brightness of her blue-blue eyes, and wonder if mine look cold, like polished coins. My mother’s seem to, when she looks at anyone save for Hilde and I.
It is a strange thing, to see a painting of oneself. I have seen my reflection before; but this is different. I look small, and sheltered by the trees. I stand on the edge of a great forest, and I wonder if I intend to walk into it, or if I am only watching. I remember Isolt, the dark girl from the wood, and my shameful fear. More accurately, Elliana paints me as if I am about to fly.
I am quiet when I say, “You never know. You could meet a god.” I am not yet old enough to recognize my nativity; the way my voice holds a promise in it, a conviction. I feel Vespera in my life, in the threads of it, as if she stands shrouded in the shades. “But I know what you mean,” I amend. I’m not interested in half the things I am forced to study. She turns to look at me, a glance over her shoulder. It does something to my heart I don’t understand; a flutter, excited and birdlike, that is there and then gone.
Did you ever try to look for me.
I did not think she could be any closer.
But she is, now, in this moment. There are no trees or paintings or thoughts between us. Did I look for her? “Of course I looked for you.” I smile shyly again, almost unsurely. The intensity of her question, her proximity, makes me uncertain of how to respond. “But maybe—maybe next time, don’t hide?” I don’t recognize my voice, or how the silence before her arrival had been a loneliness to vast it made me small.
Every happiness is the child of a separation
it did not think it could survive. And Daphne, becoming a laurel,
dares you to become the wind.
