aeneas.
I wonder if she knows how her presence fills a space as fully, as wholly, as light does. The cold, quiet of my meditation is replaced by something warmer, brighter. I do not mind my solitude; but if this is the alternative, I prefer it. I do not know how to tell her this, or even if I should: and so I don’t, even as the sentiment spills from my eyes and promises a fondness I have yet to name. You are the perfect subject.
The reassurance makes me smile again; hesitantly, shyly. I know myself well enough to recognize the fragility of my gesture, the quiet gratefulness; I cannot explain the crushing pressure I feel to be more, placed upon my shoulders by no one but myself and that—
Well, only that I am a prince of two kingdoms, and belong wholly to neither of them.
I recognize I’ve been quiet too long when she moves on to ask a question; but I find myself looking almost awkwardly over my shoulder. Rather than answer immediately—because I find the answer dissatisfied, embarrassing—I ask, a whisper-question, “Are you still painting? Should I… should I stay still?” The question emerges over my shoulder, before I look back the way I had stood before.
The position leaves me strangely vulnerable; I can feel the weight of her eyes, but my shoulders are to her, my back. I remain nestled into the trees, separate and together.
I chew on her question, before answering:
“I—“
It is Elliana, however. And despite us both being older—I find that our last encounter has left me with sustained vulnerability. There is no harm in telling her the truth. “There’s a dream I have, every night. I don’t remember it, when I wake up, but I know it is the same. It upset me more than usual this morning, and—well, when I get in those mindsets, I can—I can cause accidents.” I roll my shoulders; my wings flutter in a way that feels useless.
“Anyways, the only thing that seems to help is meditation. So Vespera’s monks send me to this garden to… focus.”
I notice, now, there is a cardinal flitting through the branches of the pine. It settles on the lowermost branch and eyes both of us with thinly veiled curiosity.
It makes me glad that, for whatever reason, she is not studying. “Why aren’t you in school?” Where her tone had lacked accusation, mine is colored with it; but without heart. My tone lightens playfully, and I admit: “I am glad you found me.” I have not yet learned a man’s austerity, or a soldier’s refusal to share in weaknesses.
No. No, I am still just a boy, and she is still just a girl, and for a little while longer at least that might remain the most natural thing in the world.
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.
