[private] in the bright light of these white nights

[caledonia]

there's a voice that pulls me stumbling through a symphony
and the less of it I need, the more I get

The first thing that she remembers is the light.

It is bright, even though she can’t fully comprehend it. It’s nearly blinding, but she doesn’t mind it. In fact, she finds that she strains toward it—every fiber in her body drawn to it. There is a stirring in her heart, a faint tug in her belly, and she feels the way that it drags her along, until she leaves the warmth of her first home and lands into the darkness. She feels the light now, but it is different. It is concentrated in her belly and in the shadows that move around her—the starlight that barely washes over her.

She waits then.

Ignoring the shuffling of her mother, of the presence of her father until her other half arrives.

Then, and only then, does she feel complete.

She reaches for her sister, blindly reaching until she connects with the source of the light. She exhales slowly, feeling the tightening in her belly loosen as she smiles, squirming closer with wings pressing to her thin sides. She presses her forehead into the crook of her sister’s neck, comforted by the familiar presence, before she swings her delicate head up, ears pricking to the sound of the other voices.

Somewhere above her, there is a masculine voice that is imbued with joy—father. Plume feels the fear drop from him as he watches the two girls on the ground, as he finally reaches for Agetta to press kisses into her neck. “You are wonderful,” he breathes, and Caledonia smiles at the warmth of it. He looks toward both girls, his heart wrenching when he sees the milkiness of the winged girl’s eyes.

“Caledonia,” he says, keeping whatever emotion he feels tucked away, reaching down to kiss the girl’s forehead. Caledonia smiles, nickering quietly at her namesake as her father presses a kiss to her sister. “And Beyza.” She presses her pink nose against her sister in acknowledgment, pleased to have a name.

Please to be home.

She barely notices when the shadows arrive, when the other approaches, and she feels only a sweep of a frown sweep across her delicate face. She hears her father shuffle closer to her mother, hears as he makes a soft noise in the back of his throat. “Thank you, Anaxarete,” the words mean nothing to her and she flings her spindly legs in front of her, barely registering what comes next: “We appreciate the support.”

With a grunt, she pulls herself up and stands, legs spread far apart and wings flaring slightly. Not noticing the way that light spills from the tips of her wings and sear into the ground before it quickly fades.

’til I'm swept up by the shape of all the centuries
like an echo in the chambers of my chest