Velathri (Elara’s Vision)

The sound comes first — a breath through stone, low and slow, as if the earth itself is remembering how to inhale.
Then a child.

He’s running uphill through dust the color of rusted gold.
His feet slap against the packed clay; the air shivers with heat.
Olive trees lean toward him, their silver leaves flickering like the edges of a dream.
I can smell the forge — copper and sweat, charcoal and rainwater.

Someone calls his name — Larthu — and he turns, laughing.
He can’t be more than twelve.
His hands are black with soot, his hair wild.
Behind him, the walls of Velathri rise in terraces, roofs glowing red in the late light.

He’s carrying something small, bright: a mirror, newly cast.
He stops to watch the sun in it, and for a heartbeat the reflection blinds me —
sky above, sky below.
He blinks, and both disappear.

I can hear his mother’s voice.
She’s kneeling in a courtyard, gutting a lamb for augury, the smoke blue, the air wet with life.
Her words move like a song half-forgotten:

“We listen to what the ground doesn’t say.”

The same words my mother once said to me.
The echo folds across two thousand years and lands exactly where my pulse is.

The boy looks up — straight at me.
He shouldn’t be able to see me, but he does.
The pupils widen; the forge-light catches in his eyes.

“Who are you?” I try to ask, but my voice doesn’t reach him.
The air between us turns liquid, trembling, and suddenly his mouth is moving, speaking—

mi Larth Velthurna, clan Velθa.
ati thu mi cutha, methlum Rasna.
thesan thui,
aisar ameθ.

śuthinaś cel,
zilath mi avil,
tinscvil larθas.

acil θuna,
θuric sleθ.
avilsuś alpan,
thui mi.

I am Larth of Velathri, born of the house of Veltha.
My mother shows me the secret places, land of the Etruscans.
The dawn is here,
the gods remain.

In the tomb’s shadow,
I grow one year,
child of Tin’s breath.

Take me,
carry the word.
Through years I will rise,
through you.

The syllables vibrate through her like thunder underwater.
Elara’s mouth moves, repeating them without understanding.
Each sound tastes of iron, ash, honey.
The vision tilts — walls collapsing into red light —
and then the child is gone,
only the echo of his name burning behind her teeth:

Larth.