I was fourteen at that time -- fourteen years 5 months and 22 days, to be exact -- and I was deathly afraid of falling.

I was afraid of falling, and afraid of losing control; I was afraid of losing one more thing close to my heart: my pulse, my identity and most of all, hope.

Desperation was all that flooded me at that point, I was helpless in the ruins of an ocean of old memories and curses and broken tears: Every minute I struggled to keep myself afloat --

That is, until I met you.

***

The long grass scathed my bruised and bloody legs as I stumbled through the field; rocks and debris sinking into the soles of my feet. I gagged with pain. Blood, thick and fresh, oozed down the side of my neck. Gasping, I staggered forward a few more steps, clutching the glowing pendant tightly in my hand, my nails sinking into the flesh of my palms. Dark spots appeared in front of me, my vision blurred with tints of blood; I felt a sudden wave of nausea rolling in. 

‘Estaelia, what are you doing here?’

My heart lurched. I spun around, my hands outstretched, blindly trying to sense whoever had spoken.

Then you came, out of the fog that had been pressed onto my pupils, tearing through the meadow, towards me.

That was the last thing I saw before I slipped unconscious.

My last thought?

How did you know my name?

Hours, days, possibly weeks later, I finally managed to regain consciousness. 

Every single inch of my frame was in pain. Fire, burning infernal throbs of agony shot through me. The ground beneath was mossy and damp, a faint scent of blossoms filling my nostrils. I grappled to keep myself awake, cracking open a slit of an eye. An unstoppable tide of torment and fear spread engulfed me.

I was left here to die. Nobody would ever know. Perhaps nobody would ever care.

Blood rushed in my ears as that jolting pang of horror shot through me. Desperation. Rugged breaths. I wasn’t going to survive --

‘Estaelia?’

‘What?’ I managed to whisper through my cracked bloody lips. 

‘You’ll survive. This field is magical, it’ll heal you.’

‘There’s no such thing as magic.’ I breathed back. ‘And who are you?’

You smile, your dark hair rippling in the slight breeze, and casually brushed off that question. That one single question, the most important question of all, the one which you would never give me an answer to.

***

Slowly, and quite unbelievably, I healed.

By the time the hills surrounding our lavender field had turned a vibrant shade of emerald, I was able to rise shakily to my feet; by the time sailboats dotted the nearby harbors, my scars had transformed into eerie lines of pale lace that entwined my forearms; by the time the stars of Aquila came to illuminate the skies, I was able to look up into the heavens and begin to dream again.

‘I want to fly.’ I murmured, laying amongst the sea of lavender dotted with clusters of white fantasies.

You turned towards me, and I can see your eyes through the curtain of flowers, almost indigo under the night sky. ‘Then do it.’ Your voice was quiet.

I laughed bitterly. ‘How on earth am I going to manage that?’

‘Wings.’ You said, suddenly sounding distant.

‘This is not a fairy tale.’

Your lips twitched upwards into a smile. ‘You never know.’

I rolled over onto my stomach, giving up my fruitless attempts to make you see sense.

***

You never gave up imagining; you never abandoned your wild fictional dreams; you were always somewhere far away, entranced in your own universe.

‘What are you doing?’ I asked one day, sitting down crossed-legged across from you.

Your eyes flitted upwards in shock and you quickly tried to conceal whatever you were holding. ‘Nothing.’

That was suspicious.

Weeks later I discovered your secret.

‘You’re braiding lavenders.’

You nodded, almost hesitantly. 

‘What for?’

‘Wings. You want to fly, right?’

I didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. ‘Thanks, but I’m not sure that will work.’

‘They will.’ 

***

The days after that, I began to help you.

There was a strange delicacy in the way you twisted and twirled the flowers I had come to adorn. I watched as your fingers wound in and out, completing the skillful weaving. It was a beautiful thing to watch.

We’d talk and laugh sometimes, watching the clouds drift lazily across the cerulean skies and listening to the calls of the spiraling seagulls.

‘Would you fall in love with someone, even if you were to know that the clock to farewell has already been set?’

This question took me by surprise. ‘I… I don’t know.’

I contemplated you intently but you didn’t say anything for a long time…

‘I’ll be leaving soon.’

‘How soon?’

‘When the whole field of lavenders has been plucked.’

I nearly laughed in relief. ‘Well then, stop plucking it.’

‘I can’t.’ Your tone was even. ‘Everyone deserves to have at least one dream fulfilled.’

I bit my lip, not knowing what to say in response. 

***

I have to admit, you always confused me. I did not understand you, and perhaps I never will. I tried, multiple times, to convince you to abandon your despairingly hopeless project. 

‘Flying with lavender wings is impossible.’ I insisted. ‘It’s unrealistic. It’s not going to work.’

You didn’t listen to me.

As fall approached, the lavenders in our field became scarcer and scarcer, till late August, almost none remained. The pair of wings you had carefully constructed became full and lustrous. I couldn’t stop admiring them and yet I still felt a sinking pang in my heart whenever I stared across the bare stretch of what used to be a sea of radiance. 

You came tearing down the field one day, holding the completed set of wings in your hands, your eyes alight with joy and triumph. ‘Here.’ You panted, reaching me. ‘They’re done.’

I took the marvel you had created in my hands: it was heavy, though also strangely soft and delicate. I turned it around, running my fingers through the velvet-like bunches of lavenders and the golden bound linings. It was beautiful, no, more than that, it was breathtaking. ‘Wow.’ I sucked in a shaky breath. ‘Thank you so much.’

You smile at me, though there is a certain darkness in the corners of your eyes. ‘Go fly and explore this world, Estaelia. I must leave now.’

‘What?’ I gasped. ‘No! There must be at least one unplucked…’

You shook your head. ‘No, I counted them this morning. Perhaps one could argue that any dream comes at a cost. Especially -’ You turned to hold my gaze for the last time. ‘flying.’

And with that, you turned to leave.

I opened my mouth to shout after you, to call you back, to somehow make you stay. But then with a sickening jolt, I realized I had never known your name.

I watched as your silhouette grew smaller and fainter across the flat spread of land, and only when it disappeared from sight did I realize how much you meant to me.

***

The freezing December gust tore at my throat as I stumbled along the cobbled streets, my hair flaked with snow. I had been walking for hours, and as the lamps flickered to life on either side of the alleyway, I finally saw what I was looking for:

The lavender field which had never bloomed again, laid thick with snow, no sign of it’s once-upon-a-time glory.

And yet, as I stood there, in the midst of the howling blizzard, I thought I could still see two silhouettes staring up at the night sky. 

‘I want to fly.’

‘Then do it.’

My hands were stuck deep in my pockets, numb with cold; yet the coldest, emptiest, part of me was my heart.

‘Would you fall in love with someone, even if you were to know that the clock to farewell has already been set?’

Standing there, staring out into the dark horizon, I finally understood what you meant. I suddenly understood you, and why you had devoted yourself to fulfilling my childish dreams -- those wings you had created, the wings I had never used: I couldn’t fly with a broken heart.

Oh, the things I did to fly, to dream, to imagine; and the things you did just because you were in love with me. I closed my eyes briefly. Neither of us had ever known the laws of aviation.