but now it is a competition of whichever is heavier:
my will, or the pull of gravity into the grave
my will, or the pull of gravity into the grave
His closeness is a comfort and yet it burns, feathers rippling as if following the way her skin tightens at his nearness. It hurts. She wants, and cannot reach. She hates to want at all. It’s a maelstrom of emotions that only focusing on flying helps with, and even then she can’t help the brief surge beneath the cracking ice as he calls her by her nickname, as he praises her anew. But he holds back, and so she must do the same. Refusing to cross lines she already burned up with a touch of her fingers. Allowing him to take control of his own boundaries, and refusing to acknowledge her own emotions.
Ru watches as he darts forward, a natural despite how out of place his figure looks in the winter fields surrounding them. Landing seems like a better challenge than practice. A more definitive end. A reason not to linger, to talk, to potentially ruin things the longer they spend in each other’s presence. Landing has been the easiest so far. It’s like falling, but with style. And so far she has done a lot of falling in this form. This time she doesn’t wait for an example. Being reckless and headstrong is a better solution to her pain, and she lets her wings curl around her body, pivoting forward and diving through the air. Plummeting to the earth in a slick stream of pale Golden feathers.
For a moment, she lingers too long. Doesn’t open her wings. Considers the easy, abrupt nature of ending that awaits her. Mort’s arms, and no more pain. Then she wrenches her wings up against the wind, primaries spread wide to catch and drag, and she lands in a flurry of snow, talons striking earth as surely as they would prey. Hopping about, she shakes out her wings and pretends that moment of hesitation never happened. Shoving it all back and away. Again and again. Back into the box where it belongs.
Pretty great if I do say so myself, she preens, hoping to distract from any glimpse of awareness he may have caught as she kicks at snow with her nimble claws.
Ru watches as he darts forward, a natural despite how out of place his figure looks in the winter fields surrounding them. Landing seems like a better challenge than practice. A more definitive end. A reason not to linger, to talk, to potentially ruin things the longer they spend in each other’s presence. Landing has been the easiest so far. It’s like falling, but with style. And so far she has done a lot of falling in this form. This time she doesn’t wait for an example. Being reckless and headstrong is a better solution to her pain, and she lets her wings curl around her body, pivoting forward and diving through the air. Plummeting to the earth in a slick stream of pale Golden feathers.
For a moment, she lingers too long. Doesn’t open her wings. Considers the easy, abrupt nature of ending that awaits her. Mort’s arms, and no more pain. Then she wrenches her wings up against the wind, primaries spread wide to catch and drag, and she lands in a flurry of snow, talons striking earth as surely as they would prey. Hopping about, she shakes out her wings and pretends that moment of hesitation never happened. Shoving it all back and away. Again and again. Back into the box where it belongs.
Pretty great if I do say so myself, she preens, hoping to distract from any glimpse of awareness he may have caught as she kicks at snow with her nimble claws.
