tell the wolves I'm home
He’d never thought about returning to a world of exile – but perhaps this was with a different mindset – a world on their own for short, minute fragments of time. The cabins were an intentional surprise; sneaky and compassionate subterfuge after glancing at crash sites or placing letters within boxes; gradually wielding and bending back sprigs of greenery hovering between floorboards, reconstructing beams until they were natural and new. Floorboards layered with vines and petals, drapery condensed into portions and portraits of the earth, windows glassy, open to let the warm spring air in, fire ready in the hearth for whenever necessary. The small pond out back, with its shallow bank and lingering thresholds, enticing points of view for mercurial or calculating notions later. Even the portions where he, Noah, and Cordelia once held campfires out front, so the three separate fortresses laid out like a threshold and village, while they conspired and plotted, sat eager and fervent now.
Having snuck away from receptions and their favored people when the time was right, the arrival was hardly subdued, on thunderbird wings and repose; the art and magnificence of what they’d accomplished tipped and scaled into mutual hearts. Traversing over land and sea ensured the sight of the sunset pressing low over waves, matching crimson highlights into melded blues, and his landing was intentionally brisk, made for amusement and skill. The shift was easy, and talons became hands, snagging and catching at their artifacts, change of clothes and anything else required stuffed within the bag of holding, placed along his shoulder as he waited for her reaction.
Cursory glances aside, he immediately teased, pointing out the two shelters. “I figured if you needed space you could take one of the others,” with a wrinkle to his nose and a wry, boyish grin.
Having snuck away from receptions and their favored people when the time was right, the arrival was hardly subdued, on thunderbird wings and repose; the art and magnificence of what they’d accomplished tipped and scaled into mutual hearts. Traversing over land and sea ensured the sight of the sunset pressing low over waves, matching crimson highlights into melded blues, and his landing was intentionally brisk, made for amusement and skill. The shift was easy, and talons became hands, snagging and catching at their artifacts, change of clothes and anything else required stuffed within the bag of holding, placed along his shoulder as he waited for her reaction.
Cursory glances aside, he immediately teased, pointing out the two shelters. “I figured if you needed space you could take one of the others,” with a wrinkle to his nose and a wry, boyish grin.
the ressurected sword
