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Two in one day, wow.
In celebration of our tenth chapter: spectacular emotion with the bird.
**
10
Roarke’s eyes flicked open, and for an instant, he thought he’d gone blind.
The world was entirely white, and vaguely fluffy.
He lifted his head, and realized that he’d simply fallen asleep with his face hidden in the bird’s feathers; she woke at the absence of his weight on her back, open those summer-sky-blue eyes, and chirped as she stood, watched him flex his arms, roll his shoulders and sit up.
He blinked several times, took a deep breath, sucking in the scent of fresh snow, of a cold winter’s foredawn.
They’d kept each other alive.
Roarke lowered his hand, and when the bird fluttered her wings slightly as she jumped to it, he knew what he had to do.
Then he froze, swore quietly.
He’d hung up the coat when he’d come in, because it’d been covered in snow. He’d kept the book close, in one of his pockets.
And now, in the morning, it was gone.
“For Christ’s sake,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his- now dry- hair. “That’s sort of dishonorable, don’t you think?”
Still, he opened the door, hissed at the brilliant shock of cold, rolled his shoulders again and set off at a brisk trot.
He stole another coat, this one of a slightly heavier weight than the previous on his way to the river.
It had iced over during the night, a low-quality fragile skin that glittered with the light of the sky that was beginning to brighten. It was strong enough to tear into the skin on Roarke’s knuckles when he threw his fist into it to break through, but it shattered.
He lowered his hand, gave the bird easier access to the water, then drank a bit for himself, even though it felt like swallowing cold fire.
There wasn’t any way left to dodge what was to be done.
Roarke stood, lifted the hand that held the bird to the sky as little droplets of water shone on his fingers.
“You’re free,” he said simply. “Go on, then. You’re free.”
He wriggled his fingers slightly, upset her standing so she had to adjust her stance; she chirped unhappily, and tightened her grip.
“You were so eager to leave early on,” Roarke said, flicking his wrist. “Take it.”
She looked at him, then, and spread her wings, looked at the sky.
When she spread her tailfeathers, crouched, he took an instant to commit every detail of her to memory: feathers lightly dusted with snow, beak and talons like moonlight turned solid, eyes like a summer sky, scales vaguely blue and the color of lightning.
And she took flight.
He knew grief, a quiet wrench of it in his heart, as she ascended and turned into a spiral, touching the clouds.
“Slán, iníon an spéir,” Roarke murmured, and meant it. Farewell, and be safe, daughter of the sky.
He watched her turn sharply, the dawn striking against her feathers and making them shine; and in his opinion, there had never been a more beautiful sight.
For a moment, she simply soared, and he watched, unable to walk away, for some strange reason.
And she turned suddenly into a dive, pulling her wings closer to her body; she streaked towards the ground.
And bidden by some foreign instinct, Roarke raised his hand.
He faintly wondered how she could possible know where she was going, plummeting from thousands of feet above at a rate of at least a hundred and fifty miles an hour, if not more; she turned slightly, flung out her wings with perfect timing, and throwing them down once to hold back her momentum, landed on his hand.
For a moment, Roarke only stared.
For the first time in his life, someone had chosen him.
Shakily, as if in a dream, he raised his other hand, traced his fingers along her chest, just to reassure himself that she was real; that she wouldn’t vanish in the wind like a wraith.
She was real.
She’d chosen him.
She touched her head to his cheek, in a silent gesture of another first: a promise. I’m here. I always will be. Never forget it.
He simply watched her as she looked at him calmly, her feathers still lightly ruffled from her dive; she tilted her head, chirped softly.
And suddenly, he knew her name.
“Bán Tintrí,” Roarke murmured, soft as a whisper, even as he knew she heard, touching her talons lightly.
White Lightning.
In celebration of our tenth chapter: spectacular emotion with the bird.
**
And quite suddenly, he knew her name.
10
Roarke’s eyes flicked open, and for an instant, he thought he’d gone blind.
The world was entirely white, and vaguely fluffy.
He lifted his head, and realized that he’d simply fallen asleep with his face hidden in the bird’s feathers; she woke at the absence of his weight on her back, open those summer-sky-blue eyes, and chirped as she stood, watched him flex his arms, roll his shoulders and sit up.
He blinked several times, took a deep breath, sucking in the scent of fresh snow, of a cold winter’s foredawn.
They’d kept each other alive.
Roarke lowered his hand, and when the bird fluttered her wings slightly as she jumped to it, he knew what he had to do.
Then he froze, swore quietly.
He’d hung up the coat when he’d come in, because it’d been covered in snow. He’d kept the book close, in one of his pockets.
And now, in the morning, it was gone.
“For Christ’s sake,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his- now dry- hair. “That’s sort of dishonorable, don’t you think?”
Still, he opened the door, hissed at the brilliant shock of cold, rolled his shoulders again and set off at a brisk trot.
He stole another coat, this one of a slightly heavier weight than the previous on his way to the river.
It had iced over during the night, a low-quality fragile skin that glittered with the light of the sky that was beginning to brighten. It was strong enough to tear into the skin on Roarke’s knuckles when he threw his fist into it to break through, but it shattered.
He lowered his hand, gave the bird easier access to the water, then drank a bit for himself, even though it felt like swallowing cold fire.
There wasn’t any way left to dodge what was to be done.
Roarke stood, lifted the hand that held the bird to the sky as little droplets of water shone on his fingers.
“You’re free,” he said simply. “Go on, then. You’re free.”
He wriggled his fingers slightly, upset her standing so she had to adjust her stance; she chirped unhappily, and tightened her grip.
“You were so eager to leave early on,” Roarke said, flicking his wrist. “Take it.”
She looked at him, then, and spread her wings, looked at the sky.
When she spread her tailfeathers, crouched, he took an instant to commit every detail of her to memory: feathers lightly dusted with snow, beak and talons like moonlight turned solid, eyes like a summer sky, scales vaguely blue and the color of lightning.
And she took flight.
He knew grief, a quiet wrench of it in his heart, as she ascended and turned into a spiral, touching the clouds.
“Slán, iníon an spéir,” Roarke murmured, and meant it. Farewell, and be safe, daughter of the sky.
He watched her turn sharply, the dawn striking against her feathers and making them shine; and in his opinion, there had never been a more beautiful sight.
For a moment, she simply soared, and he watched, unable to walk away, for some strange reason.
And she turned suddenly into a dive, pulling her wings closer to her body; she streaked towards the ground.
And bidden by some foreign instinct, Roarke raised his hand.
He faintly wondered how she could possible know where she was going, plummeting from thousands of feet above at a rate of at least a hundred and fifty miles an hour, if not more; she turned slightly, flung out her wings with perfect timing, and throwing them down once to hold back her momentum, landed on his hand.
For a moment, Roarke only stared.
For the first time in his life, someone had chosen him.
Shakily, as if in a dream, he raised his other hand, traced his fingers along her chest, just to reassure himself that she was real; that she wouldn’t vanish in the wind like a wraith.
She was real.
She’d chosen him.
She touched her head to his cheek, in a silent gesture of another first: a promise. I’m here. I always will be. Never forget it.
He simply watched her as she looked at him calmly, her feathers still lightly ruffled from her dive; she tilted her head, chirped softly.
And suddenly, he knew her name.
“Bán Tintrí,” Roarke murmured, soft as a whisper, even as he knew she heard, touching her talons lightly.
White Lightning.
