06-18-2021, 01:43 PM
elodie
Was it his name she’d been after?
His name, Firion, or something deeper?
If she is Elodie, who makes the moon pine then he is Firion, who bends the moon to his will.
He is Firion, who commands it. She is Elodie, who wonders what else he can do.
She is not wise or discerning or studious, Elodie. She cannot see that there is something Other in his smile. All she sees is the boy standing before her, the boy he presents to her. Soft, kind, golden. A boy he had been once and no longer is. A ghost.
But she smiles at him and he smiles back and this is what is most important. He pulls the moonlight down around her, commands it to sing so softly to her. He stays when she is a thing made to be left and this is important, too. He tells her his name and this means something, though she does not know what yet. Firion.
He asks her who she is, too.
“Elodie,” she tells him, though she does not know why. She had not been asking for his name, so why had she given him hers?
“I don’t really know who I am beyond that,” she continues and then exhales a breath of laughter, heat pooling in her cheeks. Embarrassment. “Beyond my name, I mean.” She turns her focus to the shafts of moonlight, the fireflies that dance in its glow. This is a kindness she does not deserve, this lie about the moon and its longing.
“What about you?” she asks, tilts her head and the fire follows. “Who are you, beyond Firion?”
His name, Firion, or something deeper?
If she is Elodie, who makes the moon pine then he is Firion, who bends the moon to his will.
He is Firion, who commands it. She is Elodie, who wonders what else he can do.
She is not wise or discerning or studious, Elodie. She cannot see that there is something Other in his smile. All she sees is the boy standing before her, the boy he presents to her. Soft, kind, golden. A boy he had been once and no longer is. A ghost.
But she smiles at him and he smiles back and this is what is most important. He pulls the moonlight down around her, commands it to sing so softly to her. He stays when she is a thing made to be left and this is important, too. He tells her his name and this means something, though she does not know what yet. Firion.
He asks her who she is, too.
“Elodie,” she tells him, though she does not know why. She had not been asking for his name, so why had she given him hers?
“I don’t really know who I am beyond that,” she continues and then exhales a breath of laughter, heat pooling in her cheeks. Embarrassment. “Beyond my name, I mean.” She turns her focus to the shafts of moonlight, the fireflies that dance in its glow. This is a kindness she does not deserve, this lie about the moon and its longing.
“What about you?” she asks, tilts her head and the fire follows. “Who are you, beyond Firion?”
I’ll let my hunger take me there
@[firion]