oh, this my weapon, this my loam. this my blood, this my bone.
She is kind and sweet and he feels brutish in comparison. She is a delicate flower and he wonders just how easy it would be to break her, how easily she might wilt, how quickly she would be crushed. Or, rather, if she is like his sister. Does she have steel beneath the velvet? Does she have an unwavering core?
Wonder is softer than him, but she is strong. It would be a mistake to think otherwise.
Perhaps this girl of gossamer and rainbows is the same.
It is enough to hold his interest, a thread snagged on a thorn, and his steel eyes, broody as they may be, remain on her. “They do,” he answers, never giving more words than absolutely necessary. It feels like a physical effort to form each syllable, an exhausting endeavor to explain himself verbally. It is easier with his twin, the weight of it lifted so that his tongue can loosen, but he is still not the chatty one.
So, instead of explaining further, he concentrates and demonstrates.
His wings unfurl, the feathers of them melting first into interlocking branch and leaf. Useless but beautiful in the way of a dying autumn tree. Then, they melt into leather and bone, draconic in their power (this is one of the most exhausting to hold). Finally, they shift into feathers once more, but these pale and dipped in an oilspill, reflecting her own ethereal beauty back at her just as her own wings reach to touch him.
He flinches, and he doesn’t attempt to hide it. The feel of her wings against his own is intimate, deeply personal, and a storm cloud of confusion crosses his features. His lips press closed as he withdraws his wings, returning them to their natural state as they fold around his coltish barrel.
“It’s fine,” he finally says, swallowing hard. “It’s fine.”
He pauses for a moment, focusing on her with a faint frown.
“So where are you from?”
@[irisa]