The Other goes still.
Is that—
Something prods against her leg, farther up. Another tug, followed by more clamoring against her hide.
Curious, The Other swoops her head around to peer at the small fae perched between her shoulder blades—breathing hard, still covered in the blood of her kill. Her pale hands no longer tremble, but are fisted into The Other’s tendrils, holding on so tight the rapid pulse in her palms patters through the sensitive strands.
She looks in the youngling’s eyes, lit with so much determination they’reluminous.
“Shuile!”
Fly.
The Other huffs.
This small, breakable being with fingers too weak to withstand the force of flight wants to ride her into the frigid, unforgiving sky?
The Other doesn’t fly with a mount. Ever. She yields tonobody—especially not one so fragile.
Growling, The Other shakes, trying to dislodge the young back into the soft snow. Confused when she finds her still clinging to the same tuft of tendrils, cheeks flushed from the fast pump of her little heart.
A new fierceness screws up the youngling’s features as she bares her teeth and screams,“Shuile!”
For one so little, the word is big, making the silence shudder. Like the Air Goddess is listening.
“Shuile! Shuile! Shuile—”
Perhaps it’s the only way to get her off and make her stop screaming?
The Other looks at her hatchling—well protected within the arms of the wide-eyed male—and releases a low grating sound.
She lifts her wings and thumps them down, propelling into the sky with such force it would rival that of a falling dragon, expecting the Little One to slip free and plop upon the snow. Flustered when she doesn’t, looking back every few beats to check she’s still clinging on.
Fascination mounting.
The Mists swallow them, buffeting The Other’s wings as she scoops the icy air, soaring higher … thrashing with all her flexing might.
The Other doesn’t want the small fae to plummet to her death. She’ll catch her if she comes loose. Return her to the ground where she belongs in acknowledgment of the blood she spilled to protect The Other’s precious egg.
But it doesn’t matter how hard she beats her wings or how fast she dips or turns, the Little One doesn’t budge.
Not when the ribbons rise, then fall again.
Not when a storm sweeps in and batters them from all angles, coating the youngling’s dark hair with frost and clumps of snow.
Not when The Other soars so close to the moons she feels the world’s ever-present tug loosening its hold on her, the light of her ancestors drenching her wings. Hailing her to curl up and rest with them.
Again, the ribbons rise, arching so near that The Other wonders if they’re going to splash against her like they did so long ago, casting her hide silver.
But they don’t.
They dance just out of reach as the Little One begins to sing; a soft song that ebbs and flows with the ribbons’ movements. Like she’s translating their dance into something of such beauty that for a moment, The Other coasts.
Not thrashing.
Justlistening.
The song calls to her soul. Tugs like her yearning to curl around her egg long after it was due to hatch. To eventually offer it some of the silver essence that filled her with the cosmic song she’s finally starting to understand; one final surge of hope.
