07-03-2018, 04:42 PM
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You: a shadow in the wake of her light. You follow at a distance, your black wings scraping the belly of a bruised sky. No hurry; she gleams like a newly drawn blade here in the dusk. You won't lose sight of her. So you glide. Flight still requires more effort than it should. What the world owed you naturally, it still refuses to give. And so magic quivers in the long flight feathers of your wings, silver and tenuous. It's a string pulling taut at the back of your mind. A wire quivering with strain. The muscles in your shoulders ache. The things in your head grind and grind. You don't care. You follow the girl. She descends, eventually. Too fast — but she won't crash. You follow her in a slow spiral, and only when she has touched down, only when she and the griffin stand breathing and staring and full of youth, do you grace her with your presence. You: black angel, alighting with a clatter of hooves a few paces nearby. You aren't sure if she knew of your pursuit before. You aren't sure how self-absorbed she is today. You study her without amusement in your dark eyes. Just: a sort of frown. You want to breathe hard but you don't, ignoring the scream of your lungs and instead rationing the oxygen they claim. You won't appear taxed before her. You won't embarrass yourself. As your wings fold, the long silver feathers edging each of them fade, and you are a stark black thing here at the foot of the crimson hills. Here in the frigid north. Like home. Not home. Your head tilts, just a little. You blink at the girl. Hard to tell if you disapprove or if that's just the way your face looks, now. You don't speak. You forget to do that, sometimes, and just stare instead. As you are doing now. Does she think you angry with her? Is she annoyed with your presence? Maybe you should explain. You don't. countdown to selfdestruct |
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Soft song from the griffin's throat — maybe something softens in your eyes. Maybe not; maybe that's just a trick of the light. But then you feel the girl's attention shifting toward you, soft and luminous. Not a pinning gaze like your mother's. Not a wrenching gaze like your father's. Just.... soft. "I'm not going back." The steel in it! She speaks the words like a promise held at your throat. In them, you hear something a little different: You're not taking me back. You snort, your breath a jet of pale fog. The nearest thing to a laugh you've uttered in a very, very long time. Your gaze shifts. Dark eyes rake the southern horizon, if not with interest then with scrutiny. A long time since you ventured farther south. You'd prefer not to return to that time, but you'd prefer a lot of things which will never be. You understand this. “There's nowhere to go back to,” you point out. The resonant tones of the words are a far cry from the fluting lilt of your childhood voice, almost comically deep combined with the delicate shape of your features. You're being honest, though. Your eyes narrow and pause at a random point, something dark lancing through them. She probably means something different than you do because she never had a home, but anywhere you spend in this place is.... well, it's just a waste of time. You don't know where the others are right now, and you tire of looking for them. Vesper, grown, shines better in her own light, anyway. You're sure of that. Your head turns back toward Savera. Ears flick up. “Where are you going?” you wonder aloud. It hasn't occurred to you, really, that you wouldn't go with her. She is family. At least — she is the moon's blood, and therefore yours. Precious, even if she lacks the steel of your mother's spine. Heir only to your father's wandering heart, and whatever her own mother passed down (nothing of use, you're sure). So it is in your mind already, that you'll watch over her. You will, as naturally as breathing. The two of you, lesser than your siblings but alive. If you don't watch out for each other, who will? countdown to selfdestruct |
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Everywhere — a breath. Were you ever so hungry? Did you ever see so much potential in the horizon? No; no. You wanted only your home and your family, the cool strength of your mother's voice and the soothing comfort of your father's. The stories he told. Knowledge of your clear superiority. Now, all you have is her. You make no comment. Your eyes rest coolly on her silver shape. She is going to get into trouble, and you are going to follow her. She is going to be threatened by this world, and you are going to tear it apart the moment it tries. You know this. You know this without even thinking about it — the decision made without conscious input. You, the two of you, dark stars burning through the Rift — But then something else. Sharp — danger in the sudden twist of your head. The flare of your nostrils. The flick of your ears. For an instant, you're all muscle and sinew. The flaring of wings, the gleam of violence in your eyes. But it's only a boy, wingless and ugly and gold. A boy who might be a little familiar if you had cared to study anyone in your homeland, but you did not, and so he is not. Your gaze narrows as it travels over him, assessing now for threat. His voice is soft. Uncertain. Good. He should fear you. He should be bowing his damned head in deference, but he's probably stupid, and so (in a rare act of mercy) you don't hold it against him. Instead you step forward, your entire body drawing up to its full height, swan's neck holding a graceful arch, eyes suddenly full of — something. Maybe the word is anger, but that doesn't quite fit, does it? Maybe intrigue is better. The expression is just — you. Intense. Savera speaks first, and it isn't really what you wanted her to say. Your eyes move but your head doesn't, a brief sideways glance which might be a question and might be irritation. She's playing some kind of game. You don't understand it. You don't want this stranger's help in any way — you're better than him! A muscle stands out in your jaw as you grind your teeth, deliberating. You could — you could trample over whatever plan she's making. But you don't want to upset her. She is your little sister, and she is clever, even if she is strange.... Maybe you ought to let her lead, for now. You think you could take control of the situation if needed. So with a heavy sigh and a too-obvious roll of your eyes, you step back, grunting. And maybe to the stranger you just seem like any other older brother exasperated by his little sister's need to ask directions. countdown to selfdestruct |