Everest
Everest adjusts his stance as Nova hops lightly onto his palms, the weight of her body feather-light against his calloused hands. He watches her wings with quiet intensity, clocking the micro-adjustments in muscle, the pattern of resistance against the air. With each lift, the beat of her wings syncs more fluidly with the rise, and his grip subtly shifts to account for her changing centre of gravity. The soft trill of her giggle ripples through the bond like wind over still water, and it almost makes him smile—almost—but his focus remains pinned to precision. To control. To the method beneath the joy.
"Alright," he says softly, tone even as always, but with a faint upward inflection that hints at encouragement. "You’re catching lift now. We’ll go a little higher each time. Keep the rhythm." And he does. Each rise a little stronger. A little faster. He tracks her posture and the flutter of her wingbeats, listening to the song in her mind and the air under her feathers.
Then he crouches slightly, just enough to load tension into his legs. His fingers firm a touch under her talons—not too tight, not too loose—and he speaks aloud again, this time with clear structure: "On three, I’m going to launch you. Get your wings moving right away. Don’t think about the ground—just the air." A breath. Then the count. "One...two...three." And on three, Everest pushes up with a practiced, powerful thrust—palms releasing as her weight leaves him—catapulting Nova into the air like a dancer into a leap, trusting her to take the lead mid-flight.
"Alright," he says softly, tone even as always, but with a faint upward inflection that hints at encouragement. "You’re catching lift now. We’ll go a little higher each time. Keep the rhythm." And he does. Each rise a little stronger. A little faster. He tracks her posture and the flutter of her wingbeats, listening to the song in her mind and the air under her feathers.
Then he crouches slightly, just enough to load tension into his legs. His fingers firm a touch under her talons—not too tight, not too loose—and he speaks aloud again, this time with clear structure: "On three, I’m going to launch you. Get your wings moving right away. Don’t think about the ground—just the air." A breath. Then the count. "One...two...three." And on three, Everest pushes up with a practiced, powerful thrust—palms releasing as her weight leaves him—catapulting Nova into the air like a dancer into a leap, trusting her to take the lead mid-flight.
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
