News of Departure

After the departure of the Heavenly Messenger, Aeneas wandered slowly along the stone halls of Carthage’s royal palace. The stones were yellow and marked by tools and the passage of time. He wondered how well Dido knew the stones and rooms of the building. He’d bet she could walk around blindfolded, and still maintain that grace about her. The strength in hr shoulders, the dainty positions of her feet, that mystery in her half smile, the endlessly mischievous light in her blue eyes, the way the light caught her golden hair at her shoulders and middle back. Aeneas was completely, hopelessly in love. And no it was the will of the gods that he leave her, and return to Troy, on a mission that seemed stupid and suicidal. He moved to one of the rough square window and looked out. Below him, looking like a child’s toy, was Carthage. And how he loved it. He’d been there very little time, but he already loved it, even more than he loved the sea beyond the tiny city, all blue green and undulating, with an inner pulse Aeneas had always tried to stay in tune with. It seemed so trivial now. He loved the winding narrow side streets of the city, and the wide main avenues, the scents and sights. His love of Carthage itself was eclipsed by his love for its queen, Dido herself. He thought back to where he had left her, curled up in her, their, bed. She looked more beautiful than a goddess, al smooth pearly white skin, her golden hair all around her in fan. Her scent was floral, and pure, like milk and honey and roses. He could breathe that in his whole life, and never get tired. He could sleep in that bed the rest of his life and never want for any other. He could have her as his wife for eternity, and always be like a newlywed in love. But he could not deny the gods either. Aeneas sent for a handmaid, and told her to give the order to his men; they would sail at midday the next day. He heard the whispers growing like the humming of a hornet’s nest throughout the palace. It would be all over Carthage within the hour. Soon, behind him he heard frantic running footsteps, light and nervous, and he knew it was her. Dido. His queen, his wrath, his fury, and how he loved her. He turned and there she was, all messy and upset, tears running down her face in rivulets. She looked beautiful. She was wearing white tunic, with blue spiky spirals, no sandals, her hair loose, her crown askew.

“You can’t go! You can’t!”

“Dido…”

“No! No! You don’t just get to leave! You’re mine Aeneas, mine and no one else’s. Not even Troy’s!”

She begun to cry as she shouted, and she brought her hand to her chest, hitting herself, but seeming to take no notice of the pain. Aeneas took a step forward and stopped. She wouldn’t, couldn’t understand. He turned around; it was easier not facing her. “I must go, love. My destiny is there, I cannot stay.” She took a deep gaspy breath behind him, and reach for his arm “Your destiny?! What about me?! Don’t you love me anymore?! You can’t leave, I won’t let you! Your not allowed!” his heart broke and he turned and took her into his arms. “I'm sorry. I do love you. So much. But I must go. The gods,” she snorted loudly at this “the gods will it. I’m so sorry. I must go. Come with me.” the last bit he added thoughtlessly, desperately, hoping to salvage something of the best moments of his life. Her face was pressed tightly to his chest; right on his heart and she shook her head wildly. She couldn’t go. They both knew that. She had to stay and be a queen to her people, heartbroken or not. He held her tight, trying to imbed the memory al firmly as he could. He knew he would need it for tough times ahead. For the long nights on the creaking wooden ship, where the slightest change of wind could cause his death in a storm. He would need to keep her scent close on the cold nights in the Trojan ruins. There would be many roadblocks and battles ahead, and he could almost smell the oily fishy smell of the tents he and his men would dwell in until buildings were constructed. The memory of Dido’s hair would be his comfort in the nights after the hard painful battles ahead. After all, empires were built on blood and stone and the wills of men combine with those of the gods. He had the will of the gods, there was more than enough blood coursing through his veins, and there stone in the hills of what was once Troy. But his own will was lacking. What he truly wanted was to lift Dido and carry her back to her, their, bedroom and make love to her. Then he would curl up beneath the feather cover with her, and sleep. When he woke, he would be King of Carthage. He wanted this more than anything, to marry her and give her sons and daughters and live in peace in Carthage. However, the desires of the gods override the desires of simple mortals, which are theirs to create and destroy to their will. Her hands reached out to encircle him, and they swayed slightly, both lost in their private and shared despair. Their destinies were set, not even love and blood and tears could erase the words set in stone. Their lives were spoken for. He would go, she would stay. She would die, of a broken heart. His fate was to break it. The time for that was coming, flying ever faster. However, the gods, in their infinite wisdom, granted them that one, perfect moment. The rest, were imperfect and painful, like all others.

Based on the performance today. The basic plot is theirs, but I don’t know if this is how it goes down in the opera. I could’ve checked, but where’s the fun in that? I’d have limited myself. Meant to count for Tuesday and Wednesday.