Aamu
Seconds trickle by, join together, form minutes of stillness and silence—
Her name sits like a stone in his breast, stuck between his ribs, a sharp jab each time he breathes, moves, thinks: she's a memory he can't find, a presence he carefully washed out of his hair. He wants to say he hasn't forgotten her, but it is what he has, isn't it? He can't recall her, or her face, the sound of her voice, her laughter...
When the shadow passes across the lightening sky his gaze rises. It's not a bird, is it? It's too large, yet so graceful, and Aamu feels himself go cold.
It's a small dragon.
What the hell is it doing here?
He's torn between staying absolutely still and trying to find some cover, fighting the urge to throw himself under the bench. He can't say why his first instinct is to get away, press his back against the wall and disappear, but as it comes arcing back towards him he sees someone walking over the crest.
She walks like a fighter but not like one on business. Aamu's gaze snaps to the dragon, one of his wrists tensing oh so slightly in preparation, and it comes down, down...
It is not attacking. It merely lands on the edge of the bench and spreads its wings, which is menacing enough to Aamu, who quickly decides that becoming breakfast sounds like a really good idea. Well, not really—but as it is just peering at him with an intent expression he's seen in dogs and cats before he slowly unfurls one hand, showing the dragon that he is not armed. (Well, not visibly so, at the very least.) Lest it displays any sign of obvious aggression he reaches out to let it sniff his fingers, and if given permission, stroke and scratch its lower jaw.
It's not every day you get the chance to pet (or get mauled by) a dragon, after all. "Hello there," he murmurs in his light, clear voice, content to ignore the person accompanying it for now. If she wants anything to do with him, she's likely more than capable of opening her mouth.
Her name sits like a stone in his breast, stuck between his ribs, a sharp jab each time he breathes, moves, thinks: she's a memory he can't find, a presence he carefully washed out of his hair. He wants to say he hasn't forgotten her, but it is what he has, isn't it? He can't recall her, or her face, the sound of her voice, her laughter...
When the shadow passes across the lightening sky his gaze rises. It's not a bird, is it? It's too large, yet so graceful, and Aamu feels himself go cold.
It's a small dragon.
What the hell is it doing here?
He's torn between staying absolutely still and trying to find some cover, fighting the urge to throw himself under the bench. He can't say why his first instinct is to get away, press his back against the wall and disappear, but as it comes arcing back towards him he sees someone walking over the crest.
She walks like a fighter but not like one on business. Aamu's gaze snaps to the dragon, one of his wrists tensing oh so slightly in preparation, and it comes down, down...
It is not attacking. It merely lands on the edge of the bench and spreads its wings, which is menacing enough to Aamu, who quickly decides that becoming breakfast sounds like a really good idea. Well, not really—but as it is just peering at him with an intent expression he's seen in dogs and cats before he slowly unfurls one hand, showing the dragon that he is not armed. (Well, not visibly so, at the very least.) Lest it displays any sign of obvious aggression he reaches out to let it sniff his fingers, and if given permission, stroke and scratch its lower jaw.
It's not every day you get the chance to pet (or get mauled by) a dragon, after all. "Hello there," he murmurs in his light, clear voice, content to ignore the person accompanying it for now. If she wants anything to do with him, she's likely more than capable of opening her mouth.
You are the night-time fear
You are the morning when it's clear
You are the morning when it's clear
