12-30-2020, 11:51 AM
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At first, he feels nothing. Unconscious has wrapped him in a sweet blanket that protects him from the aches of the world. As if he is still floating in the warmth of his mother’s womb, Targaryen’s awareness is limited to the inner workings of his mind. Distant memories hazily swim past his mind’s eye, yet they are too blurry and vague for him to put a name to them. A flash of pale pink color, the sound of snow falling from a heavy tree branch, the taste of fresh spring grass.
As the girl approaches, these sensations flutter away. Targaryen is left with a brief moment of panic surrounded by the emptiness of his mind. The quickening of his heart (an instinctual reaction to a stranger and the physical reaction of his panic) stirs his body awake, flooding him with the aches that unconsciousness had sheltered him from. The gash on his leg pulsates in pain, warm with the beginnings of an infection, while the rest of his body burns with a deep ache from battering and the cold of the night.
Another low groan weakly drifts out of his throat at the throbbing of his body. Her voice is a faint whisper beneath the uncomfortable buzzing he hears and the sound of his own heart beating frantically. The soft touch of her nose is a balm to his skin and soul, and Targaryen clings to her warmth as if he were a man in the sea and she is the lifeboat that will carry him to shore.
The gentleness of her touch seems to spread across his whole body, sparking pinprickles that burst into flames beneath his pine-and-ivory skin. Targaryen assumes this is what death feels like; he surrenders to the fire that burns along his bones and muscles and veins with mixed feelings. To die so young feels like a tragedy, yet the relief that this warmth grants is too satisfying to reject. He is too young and naive to fully understand what he will miss in life (the laughter of his own children, the wisdom that comes with years, the ability to travel far and decide where you will build your life) and so he allows himself to melt completely into the girl’s touch.
When his soft brown eyes slide open, he is surprised to find himself wholly alive. At least, he assumes he is alive because a girl kneels dizzily beside him and his surroundings are not what he expects death to look like — a summer evening, lying on the shores of a familiar river with the night sky high above his head. The pains he had felt before have vanished and when Targaryen pulls his head off the ground, he notices that the deep gash in his leg has been stitched together until his muscle and skin is unblemished.
The sound of the girl’s voice draws Targaryen’s eyes toward her. “Are you okay?” He climbs to his feet, surprised by how easy the motion is despite how poorly he had felt only moments ago. The boy immediately moves to her side, putting a bicolored wing across her young body to provide something for her to lean against. “I think you saved my life,” he admits, his brown eyes scanning her face. Whatever she has done to heal him has made her weak and he quickly inspects her, wondering if his wounds have transferred to her. As if he has forgotten he has already asked (but really because he is concerned), “Are you okay?”
As the girl approaches, these sensations flutter away. Targaryen is left with a brief moment of panic surrounded by the emptiness of his mind. The quickening of his heart (an instinctual reaction to a stranger and the physical reaction of his panic) stirs his body awake, flooding him with the aches that unconsciousness had sheltered him from. The gash on his leg pulsates in pain, warm with the beginnings of an infection, while the rest of his body burns with a deep ache from battering and the cold of the night.
Another low groan weakly drifts out of his throat at the throbbing of his body. Her voice is a faint whisper beneath the uncomfortable buzzing he hears and the sound of his own heart beating frantically. The soft touch of her nose is a balm to his skin and soul, and Targaryen clings to her warmth as if he were a man in the sea and she is the lifeboat that will carry him to shore.
The gentleness of her touch seems to spread across his whole body, sparking pinprickles that burst into flames beneath his pine-and-ivory skin. Targaryen assumes this is what death feels like; he surrenders to the fire that burns along his bones and muscles and veins with mixed feelings. To die so young feels like a tragedy, yet the relief that this warmth grants is too satisfying to reject. He is too young and naive to fully understand what he will miss in life (the laughter of his own children, the wisdom that comes with years, the ability to travel far and decide where you will build your life) and so he allows himself to melt completely into the girl’s touch.
When his soft brown eyes slide open, he is surprised to find himself wholly alive. At least, he assumes he is alive because a girl kneels dizzily beside him and his surroundings are not what he expects death to look like — a summer evening, lying on the shores of a familiar river with the night sky high above his head. The pains he had felt before have vanished and when Targaryen pulls his head off the ground, he notices that the deep gash in his leg has been stitched together until his muscle and skin is unblemished.
The sound of the girl’s voice draws Targaryen’s eyes toward her. “Are you okay?” He climbs to his feet, surprised by how easy the motion is despite how poorly he had felt only moments ago. The boy immediately moves to her side, putting a bicolored wing across her young body to provide something for her to lean against. “I think you saved my life,” he admits, his brown eyes scanning her face. Whatever she has done to heal him has made her weak and he quickly inspects her, wondering if his wounds have transferred to her. As if he has forgotten he has already asked (but really because he is concerned), “Are you okay?”
@[Cheri]