'cause dirt on you is dirt on me, and we both know our hands ain't clean
Calan nods with complete confidence as the Hel rounds the curve, not troubled in the slightest by the fact that this bird isn’t actually the one he and Fern have seen before. "Bird is very, very good at evading traps anyway," he assures her, as though this particular skill has been thoroughly tested and documented. The Hel’s uninjured arrival only strengthens his conclusion, and he lowers his broom enough to watch Fern consider the remaining stairs with all the caution they deserve.
"Be careful!" Calan crows when caution abruptly loses to momentum and she charges upward. He leans after her with one hand outstretched, following every hurried step while his breath catches somewhere beneath his ribs. Only once she tumbles safely onto the landing does he release it in one enormous gust, relieved that the traps have either missed her or recognized her worthiness before anything terrible could happen.
Now it’s his turn, though, and simply copying Fern would hardly prove that he’s equally heroic. Calan plants the end of his broom firmly against the step, backs up as far as the cramped stairway allows, and grips the handle with both hands. The idea is flawless: he’ll use it like a pole vault, sail cleanly over the last dangerous steps, and land beside her without touching any of them. The broom immediately slips, though, and instead of soaring, Calan launches himself forward in a crooked lurch, his feet leaving the stairs just long enough for the attempt to feel briefly successful before the broom twists out from under him. He shoots over the remaining steps with none of the elegance he’d imagined and arrives directly at Fern’s feet in a sprawling crumble of elbows, knees, broom handle, and offended dignity. Both knees sting where the stone has scraped them, but Calan pushes himself upright before anyone can mistake injury for defeat.
"Me too!" he announces breathlessly, lifting his chin from the middle of the heap as though this was precisely how he intended to complete the trial.
"Be careful!" Calan crows when caution abruptly loses to momentum and she charges upward. He leans after her with one hand outstretched, following every hurried step while his breath catches somewhere beneath his ribs. Only once she tumbles safely onto the landing does he release it in one enormous gust, relieved that the traps have either missed her or recognized her worthiness before anything terrible could happen.
Now it’s his turn, though, and simply copying Fern would hardly prove that he’s equally heroic. Calan plants the end of his broom firmly against the step, backs up as far as the cramped stairway allows, and grips the handle with both hands. The idea is flawless: he’ll use it like a pole vault, sail cleanly over the last dangerous steps, and land beside her without touching any of them. The broom immediately slips, though, and instead of soaring, Calan launches himself forward in a crooked lurch, his feet leaving the stairs just long enough for the attempt to feel briefly successful before the broom twists out from under him. He shoots over the remaining steps with none of the elegance he’d imagined and arrives directly at Fern’s feet in a sprawling crumble of elbows, knees, broom handle, and offended dignity. Both knees sting where the stone has scraped them, but Calan pushes himself upright before anyone can mistake injury for defeat.
"Me too!" he announces breathlessly, lifting his chin from the middle of the heap as though this was precisely how he intended to complete the trial.
if it all goes wrong and we end up on the news, if you go down I'm goin' down too
