tell me father,
what to ask forgiveness for:
what I am, or what I am not?
what to ask forgiveness for:
what I am, or what I am not?
Whatever has been building, whatever strange tension or knowledge, has reached its pinnacle.
If she is all things of earth, then Aeneas is of the stars.
That is the only kind of dying he knows. The end of galaxies; the collapse of a supernova; a black hole, bottomless in its hunger. Silent ends. Nearly incomprehensible ends, in the form of quiet deaths. In their magnitude, they are made distant. They exist only in his sensitive connection to stars, to sun, to the energy between all things. The energy that threads itself, delicately, between them now.
Aeneas is not thinking of beauty, or innocence, or sin. He is thinking of that pulsating thread; the thread of magic; the thread of connection; the way her questions to herself manifest, in him, as a simple neutrality. With each flower created in the eyes of a statue, his heart leaps. There is no aching abyss; no unforgivable, too-hot sun. Aeneas is not thinking of what she looks like; only the attraction to what is beneath, the current he feels like a heartbeat, an energy he has never before met.
If I came with you, Aeneas, your heart would run with me instead of with you. She has stepped through his false stardust and into him; the scythe she wears as a birthright kisses, without smarting, his throat. Do you understand?
Aeneas, an optimist, a dreamer.
Aeneas, prideful, fierce, detached.
“No,” Aeneas whispers, as softly as her blade touches him. “No, because my heart does not run, flower girl. It flies.”
(But, Aeneas does know. He knows it in the quiet threat of her weapon, in her spiraled horn; he understands it, inherently, in the pooled-blood color of her ruby eyes. He simply refuses to believe it).
He stands regarding her eye-to-eye. With a flick of his telekinesis, he removes the tear from her cheek. “You can come with me anytime you would like, Danaë.”
Is it brave, he wonders, to regard a thing he cannot understand and to refuse to fear it?
It feels brave, Aeneas thinks.
"My parents will be looking for me," he says, almost apologetically. But Aeneas lingers for a moment longer and turns away only after casting, with his luminous magic, a small galaxy above her.
(But look closely, Danaë--look how each of your flowers wilted when the light was born).
Perhaps he is more than a fawn underfoot.
If she is all things of earth, then Aeneas is of the stars.
That is the only kind of dying he knows. The end of galaxies; the collapse of a supernova; a black hole, bottomless in its hunger. Silent ends. Nearly incomprehensible ends, in the form of quiet deaths. In their magnitude, they are made distant. They exist only in his sensitive connection to stars, to sun, to the energy between all things. The energy that threads itself, delicately, between them now.
Aeneas is not thinking of beauty, or innocence, or sin. He is thinking of that pulsating thread; the thread of magic; the thread of connection; the way her questions to herself manifest, in him, as a simple neutrality. With each flower created in the eyes of a statue, his heart leaps. There is no aching abyss; no unforgivable, too-hot sun. Aeneas is not thinking of what she looks like; only the attraction to what is beneath, the current he feels like a heartbeat, an energy he has never before met.
If I came with you, Aeneas, your heart would run with me instead of with you. She has stepped through his false stardust and into him; the scythe she wears as a birthright kisses, without smarting, his throat. Do you understand?
Aeneas, an optimist, a dreamer.
Aeneas, prideful, fierce, detached.
“No,” Aeneas whispers, as softly as her blade touches him. “No, because my heart does not run, flower girl. It flies.”
(But, Aeneas does know. He knows it in the quiet threat of her weapon, in her spiraled horn; he understands it, inherently, in the pooled-blood color of her ruby eyes. He simply refuses to believe it).
He stands regarding her eye-to-eye. With a flick of his telekinesis, he removes the tear from her cheek. “You can come with me anytime you would like, Danaë.”
Is it brave, he wonders, to regard a thing he cannot understand and to refuse to fear it?
It feels brave, Aeneas thinks.
"My parents will be looking for me," he says, almost apologetically. But Aeneas lingers for a moment longer and turns away only after casting, with his luminous magic, a small galaxy above her.
(But look closely, Danaë--look how each of your flowers wilted when the light was born).
Perhaps he is more than a fawn underfoot.
