i fell in love with a war
Icarus catches the flash of soemthing in the sky and follows, heart hammering in the back of his throat. He doesn’t know what drew him to the Oerwoud, compelled him to ask a day’s leave and wander onto the Skyship in a perhaps ill-fated attempt to wake Ghilio. He says ill-fated because, if his hopeless sense of direction were anything to be trusted, he was hopelessly and utterly lost. And now, if the memories seared into the backs of his eyes and lacing the jagged, brutal scars on his chest are to be trusted, there’s a dragon flitting around here too. Wonderful.
His chest burns as he moves towards the source of the movement, drawn by some invisible tether of trauma. The air is thick with humidity, a largely unfamiliar sensation to the cold-hardened Halo soldier, and the jacket he had arrived with now resides tied around his waist. Long, lean arms push away foreign fauna in Icarus’ path; if circumstances were different, perhaps he would have delighted in letting his fingers run over the strange new life, reveling in the touch of vitality under his weathered fingers.
With a burst of desperate speed, sticks snapping and crushing under his heavy boots, Icarus emerges into a clearing holding a man, a bridge that could only be politely described as structurally unsound, and most pressingly, a dragon. The man upon the bridge is tall and strong and seems utterly unbothered by (rather small) creature of mass destruction perched next to him, and Icarus doesn’t want to startle him on this rickety bridge but—
”Excuse me,” He calls, voice soft as it ever is but with a note of urgency in it, ”There’s a dragon next to you,” It’s perhaps an unhelpful observation in this particular moment but echoes of talons on his chest and bloodied memories of wings against Citadel walls beat against his memories and his dragon-claw scars, remnants of near-death and grief, climb out red and angrily visible from the low collar of his sleeveless undershirt. His hands drift to his sword, more out of habit than anything else, resting there unobtrusively.
His chest burns as he moves towards the source of the movement, drawn by some invisible tether of trauma. The air is thick with humidity, a largely unfamiliar sensation to the cold-hardened Halo soldier, and the jacket he had arrived with now resides tied around his waist. Long, lean arms push away foreign fauna in Icarus’ path; if circumstances were different, perhaps he would have delighted in letting his fingers run over the strange new life, reveling in the touch of vitality under his weathered fingers.
With a burst of desperate speed, sticks snapping and crushing under his heavy boots, Icarus emerges into a clearing holding a man, a bridge that could only be politely described as structurally unsound, and most pressingly, a dragon. The man upon the bridge is tall and strong and seems utterly unbothered by (rather small) creature of mass destruction perched next to him, and Icarus doesn’t want to startle him on this rickety bridge but—
”Excuse me,” He calls, voice soft as it ever is but with a note of urgency in it, ”There’s a dragon next to you,” It’s perhaps an unhelpful observation in this particular moment but echoes of talons on his chest and bloodied memories of wings against Citadel walls beat against his memories and his dragon-claw scars, remnants of near-death and grief, climb out red and angrily visible from the low collar of his sleeveless undershirt. His hands drift to his sword, more out of habit than anything else, resting there unobtrusively.
Icarus
and nobody told me it ended
