Everest
Everest watches with steady, methodical attention as Nova layers in that final pair of wings. Her focus is sharp, threaded through the bond with the same rhythmic structure she builds in her body, and the moment they fall into sync, he can feel it—an internal click, like all the shelves have been aligned.
He doesn’t interrupt. Just adjusts his kneeling posture ever so slightly, arms bent in a precise angle, boots braced in the sand, head tilted as though cataloguing each twitch and rotation of her shoulders. When her chirped thought filters through, it’s met with a quiet pulse of approval. Not a flood, just a single, affirming signal.
Only once her pattern has repeated without falter does he move. His hands come forward with an engineer’s precision, palms open and angled upward in a calculated invitation. Not wide, not grabby—just available. A stable platform, same width as before. A known variable in a sea of new ones.
"If you’re ready," he says, "try standing on my hands. This will serve as the final step in combining your efforts before I believe you'll be ready to fly." If and when she lands, he'll begin to lift his hands. Slowly at first, watching her muscles adjust, the air drag beneath her wings as altitude changes without wind. He lowers again, then up. Then again. His rhythm is consistent—measured tempo, nothing erratic.
Each motion adds a layer to her calibration. Each pass another page of internal reference.
He doesn’t interrupt. Just adjusts his kneeling posture ever so slightly, arms bent in a precise angle, boots braced in the sand, head tilted as though cataloguing each twitch and rotation of her shoulders. When her chirped thought filters through, it’s met with a quiet pulse of approval. Not a flood, just a single, affirming signal.
Only once her pattern has repeated without falter does he move. His hands come forward with an engineer’s precision, palms open and angled upward in a calculated invitation. Not wide, not grabby—just available. A stable platform, same width as before. A known variable in a sea of new ones.
"If you’re ready," he says, "try standing on my hands. This will serve as the final step in combining your efforts before I believe you'll be ready to fly." If and when she lands, he'll begin to lift his hands. Slowly at first, watching her muscles adjust, the air drag beneath her wings as altitude changes without wind. He lowers again, then up. Then again. His rhythm is consistent—measured tempo, nothing erratic.
Each motion adds a layer to her calibration. Each pass another page of internal reference.
even if i had to lose you to know you,
i'd still be that temporary phase that you grow through
i'd still be that temporary phase that you grow through
