04-20-2021, 07:59 PM
MARINER
There is something condescending in that dark smile when she barks her retort, something mocking in the way he merely looks at her without speaking. There is no response save for this long stretch of silence, thin, pulsing with her uncertainty. His mother had lacked any maternal instinct and therefore had not passed any paternal instinct onto him, so it matters very little to him whether or not Islay hurts herself. What matters to him is that she tries.
So he waits.
Stands there and watches her until, finally, she looks away and trots into the darkness.
He stands motionless and listens.
Listens for the sound of her footfalls, for the sound of those dark wings cutting through the air, for silence. And when he no longer hears her footsteps, he follows her into the sky. It comes second nature to him. It takes no effort at all. And he thinks that, should she commit herself to practicing, one day it will be just as effortless for her.
She calls out to him and he finds her by the sound of her voice.
He glides, wings outstretched, toward her. Reaches out a wingtip to skim it across her hip as he swoops past. “What did I tell you?” he calls as he dives away and then circles back with an easy flap of his wings. “There’s nothing to it.”
As if it had really been that easy. As if he himself had been born knowing how to fly. As if he had never struggled. As if he had never failed. As if his mother had never had to sharply tell him that she would leave him behind if he didn’t try. As if his own heart had not once been gripped with fear, his wings paralyzed by panic.
As if he had never once been afraid.
So he waits.
Stands there and watches her until, finally, she looks away and trots into the darkness.
He stands motionless and listens.
Listens for the sound of her footfalls, for the sound of those dark wings cutting through the air, for silence. And when he no longer hears her footsteps, he follows her into the sky. It comes second nature to him. It takes no effort at all. And he thinks that, should she commit herself to practicing, one day it will be just as effortless for her.
She calls out to him and he finds her by the sound of her voice.
He glides, wings outstretched, toward her. Reaches out a wingtip to skim it across her hip as he swoops past. “What did I tell you?” he calls as he dives away and then circles back with an easy flap of his wings. “There’s nothing to it.”
As if it had really been that easy. As if he himself had been born knowing how to fly. As if he had never struggled. As if he had never failed. As if his mother had never had to sharply tell him that she would leave him behind if he didn’t try. As if his own heart had not once been gripped with fear, his wings paralyzed by panic.
As if he had never once been afraid.
i’m a shot through the dark, i’m a black sinkhole
if it weren’t for second chances, we’d all be alone
if it weren’t for second chances, we’d all be alone
@[Islay]