2018 | Aura | A Face Like That
Location: JFK Airport, New York, USA/Cordisager
Fashion: Totême Ribbed-knit Wool-blend Turtleneck Sweater; Agolde 90's Pinch Waist Long High-Rise Straight Jeans; Gianvito Rossi Foster 45mm suede lace-up boots; Longchamp Large Le Pliage Tote Bag; Hèrmes Colliers et Chiens Forever Twilly Scarf (tied around the handle of her bag); Mejuri Tube Medium Hoops; Jaeger LeCoultre Reverso Classic Duetto Watch; Away The Bigger Carry-On Luggage; Away The Large Luggage.
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At Gate 38, the line was chaos. Airline attendants argued with passengers, tension rose in the air like static.
Aura stepped forward with her boarding pass in hand, presenting it with a composed smile. The attendant barely looked up.
“I’m sorry, miss. This seat has been reallocated. The flight is overbooked.”
Aura blinked. “I’m sorry, there must be a mistake. This ticket was confirmed days ago—”
“Yes, but it wasn’t checked in online, so—”
“That’s not a fair reason to displace someone—”
“She’s right,” a smooth, baritone voice said behind her. “Not fair at all. May I?”
Aura turned. The man was tall — very tall — with a sculpted jawline, a tailored navy wool coat slung over one arm, and a passport peeking out of his hand. A striking face, vaguely familiar. His smile was easy but respectful.
He leaned slightly toward the attendant. “Why don’t we check the manifest again? Perhaps there’s some flexibility. You know, for a woman of the cloth.”
The attendant blinked. “She’s—”
“Priestess,” he said smoothly. “Aetherai. You’ve heard of them. Equal parts devoted and stubborn.”
“I prefer persistent,” Aura muttered.
The hostess hesitated. Then smiled tightly. “One moment.”
They watched the screen flicker. “We can move someone from First to Business and offer the First Class seat. Would that suit you, Miss…”
“Terranova,” Aura said, stunned. “Yes. Thank you.”
The man turned to her once the ticket was printed. “Quintus Caelaris.”
“Aurelia Terranova,” she replied. “Thank you for the help. How did you know I was a Sacerdotia?”
His eyes sparkled. “Your monumental struggle to tell that air hostess to go fuck herself kind of gave you away.”
Aura barked a surprised laugh. “My Domina would not find that priestess-adequate language.”
“I speak fluent diplomatic sarcasm.”
“And I’m fluent in smiling through internal panic.”
“I’ve read your memorandum on cultural diplomacy,” Quintus said, tilting his head. “It’s quite impressive.”
Aura blinked. “And I’ve watched your interview on algorithmic transparency, Mr. Caelaris.”
“So much for my attempt at anonymity.”
“With a face like that, I hardly think you stood a chance.”
The words slipped before she could stop them. Her cheeks flamed.
“I mean— your face is well-known to the public. That’s what I meant.”
“It’s both a blessing and a curse,” he murmured, lips twitching.
The boarding call rang overhead. First class: boarding now.
As they walked side by side down the jetway, Aura still felt the heat in her face.
When they reached their seats, she blinked. “14A and 14B?”
He chuckled. “Destiny’s a mischievous matchmaker.”
Aura folded her arms across her chest, quirking a brow at him. “You sure this is all destiny’s doing?”
Quintus shrugged as he stored her luggage for her with the smooth grace of someone who’d done this a thousand times. “I’m a man who makes his own destiny.”
When he offered his hand to help her into her seat, she took it.
As the plane took off, they spoke in low, rich tones — politics, poetry, religion, loss. The Antistia’s death hung over them both like a veil.
“I’m sorry,” Quin said quietly, sometime over the Atlantic. “The world has lost someone luminous.”
Aura’s fingers were curled around the edge of the armrest. “Thank you. She meant a great deal.”
Hours passed like minutes. And when the sun set over the horizon, Aura’s head eventually drifted to his shoulder, lulled into exhaustion and quiet conversation.
He just looked down at her softly and smiled to himself.
The plane descended into Cordisager beneath a curtain of lavender dusk. The city unfolded below them like a map drawn in gold and sandstone — terraced rooftops catching the last sunlight, ancient domes and minarets silhouetted against the sea. The sky glowed in fading hues of periwinkle and peach, the Mediterranean lapping gently at the city's edge as if kissing the very stones.
Aura stirred awake just as the wheels kissed the runway.
Quintus turned his head. “We’ve arrived,” he said, voice low, almost reluctant.
She blinked sleepily, then straightened, smoothing the wrinkle from her jumper as the seatbelt sign dinged off.
“I didn’t drool, did I?” she asked, blinking against the grogginess.
“No,” he said, amused. “But you do tuck your hand under your cheek like a child. It’s quite disarming.”
Aura gave him a sidelong look. “So I’m told.”
As they exited the aircraft and stepped into Cordisager’s softly humming arrivals terminal, the world outside buzzed in gentle anticipation. A sea of travelers, signs, suitcases, and perfume. The air smelled faintly of salt, jasmine, and a thousand airport coffees.
They moved together through the arrivals hall, a strange, comfortable silence settling between them. Not awkward — just… known. As if their conversation had begun mid-chapter, and neither felt the need to rush to the next.
Quin took her luggage before she could protest, lifting it with casual ease. “You’ve carried enough on your own this week.”
Aura gave him a quiet, tired smile, too moved to argue.
Outside the terminal, the cool air brushed her cheeks, briny and alive. Cordisager at twilight was a world of its own — olive trees casting elongated shadows across pale stone boulevards, motorbikes darting through alleyways, distant bells ringing from unseen towers. A city in mourning, but too old to wear grief as something new.
“I can find a cab,” she said softly, hesitating.
“You’ll let me call one,” he replied, already pulling out his phone.
“No arguing with the algorithmic transparency expert, I suppose.”
A yellow cab pulled up moments later. The driver leapt out and helped stow her case, throwing a quick glance at Quin, recognizing him. He nodded in quiet awe and slipped back behind the wheel.
They stood together on the curb for a breath longer than necessary.
“Thank you,” Aura said at last, her voice like worn velvet. “For the seat. For the conversation. For carrying my bag even though I could’ve done it myself.”
“You could’ve,” he agreed, “but then I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of being useful.”
She gave a soft laugh, looking down for a moment, then back up at him.
Quintus’ expression shifted — still light, but not glib. A trace of something more sincere. “I’ll see you again, Aurelia.”
“You’re in Cordisager for the Comitia?”
He hesitated, then nodded. “In a diplomatic capacity. I was summoned.”
Her brow rose. “Then I suppose you’re not the only one making your own destiny.”
Quintus didn’t answer, but his smile deepened as he reached for her hand. He didn’t shake it — instead, he turned it gently and pressed a kiss to the inside of her wrist, just above where her pulse fluttered.
Aura’s breath caught, just for a second.
The cab driver cleared his throat.
She stepped back, opening the car door. “Good night, Mr. Caelaris.”
“Good night, Miss Terranova.”
She slid into the cab. The door closed with a thunk of finality, and the city swallowed her whole.
As they drove away, she glanced into the rearview mirror. He was still standing on the curb, hands in his pockets, watching her go.
A moment later, he turned and walked toward the palace gates — swallowed by the same shadows, carrying his own secret weight.
And Aura leaned her head back against the seat, wondering — not for the last time — what that meeting had meant.
And why the ache in her chest felt strangely… like anticipation.
