until every last star in the galaxy dies
Above him the sky stretched like an endless thing, so deep it seems to be inviting him to swim up, and up, and up until he reaches the bottom of it. And below him the entire earth curves gently, tucking itself away at the edges of the horizon like a child being put to bed. The sunlight turns it all blue, the clouds in the distance blurring the line between ground and sky, and Sirius wants to know what it would look like to see the sun breaking open the edge of the world as twilight sets in.
There had been a poet in Denocte last night, pretending to know what it felt like to fly. Sirius had known him to be a liar from the moment he said there was nothing more peaceful, more quiet than the open sky - but there was nothing quiet about flying.
The wind was whistling in his ears, whipping his mane around him like a halo, ruffling the feathers along his shoulders. And each stroke of his wings has him flying higher, and faster, and while the air is growing colder his blood is running hot enough for him to not feel it. Sirius is alone in the sky - save for the bits of stardust still streaking along behind him - for the better part of the morning. Until a tawny blur drops down on him from above with a screech, pulling a bit of his mane free before hurtling away into the open.
But the eagle is not so fast as he is.
As the bird is darting past him Sirius is folding one wing, throwing his body into a sharp turn that has each bone and muscle screaming for relief. And then he tucks them in tightly, feathers against skin, and he is falling.
The wind is a vicious thing, tearing the air from his lungs each time he tries to breathe, grabbing for his wings like it’s trying to rip them from his body. It might have been maddening, if he was not already used to it. If he hadn’t been made for this, if he hadn’t already felt the pain of imprisonment and known it to be worse than this free fall, he might have pulled back and let the eagle fade from view. Maybe if he had not been raised the way he was, his heart might not have leapt at the site of prey, and he would never have known the challenge in the eagle’s wingbeats.
But the thrill of a hunt is the hardest thing to let go of, and the distance between the two birds is closing. Even when all the court is promising him he could be whoever, whatever he wanted, begging him to choose - he is still a hunter.
By the time the ground comes rushing up to meet them both, Sirius has caught up to the eagle. He twists in midair, darting forward to draw the bird from the sky by its wings. With his heart racing - and his prize struggling in his grasp, drawing bloody lines down his chest with its talons, wings thrusting like he’s still free - Sirius drops the last few yards and lands.
For a moment he holds the bird out before him, silver eyes meeting his golden ones, one curious, the other guarded. Both of them are panting, but both have stopped struggling; the eagle stares at him now, wings drooping, beak parted, chest rising and falling quickly. It cries at him once, the weak-sounding whistle just loud enough to grate against his ears. And he continues to stare, for just a moment longer.
Because he has never caught something before, and then gotten to decide for himself what to do with it.
It still feels strange sometimes, living on his own whim.
Finally he lets it go, freeing the bird with a flick of his telekinesis. For a moment it drops, unaware of its release; but then its wings catch the air, and three quick wingbeats later it is rising again.
@warset
There had been a poet in Denocte last night, pretending to know what it felt like to fly. Sirius had known him to be a liar from the moment he said there was nothing more peaceful, more quiet than the open sky - but there was nothing quiet about flying.
The wind was whistling in his ears, whipping his mane around him like a halo, ruffling the feathers along his shoulders. And each stroke of his wings has him flying higher, and faster, and while the air is growing colder his blood is running hot enough for him to not feel it. Sirius is alone in the sky - save for the bits of stardust still streaking along behind him - for the better part of the morning. Until a tawny blur drops down on him from above with a screech, pulling a bit of his mane free before hurtling away into the open.
But the eagle is not so fast as he is.
As the bird is darting past him Sirius is folding one wing, throwing his body into a sharp turn that has each bone and muscle screaming for relief. And then he tucks them in tightly, feathers against skin, and he is falling.
The wind is a vicious thing, tearing the air from his lungs each time he tries to breathe, grabbing for his wings like it’s trying to rip them from his body. It might have been maddening, if he was not already used to it. If he hadn’t been made for this, if he hadn’t already felt the pain of imprisonment and known it to be worse than this free fall, he might have pulled back and let the eagle fade from view. Maybe if he had not been raised the way he was, his heart might not have leapt at the site of prey, and he would never have known the challenge in the eagle’s wingbeats.
But the thrill of a hunt is the hardest thing to let go of, and the distance between the two birds is closing. Even when all the court is promising him he could be whoever, whatever he wanted, begging him to choose - he is still a hunter.
By the time the ground comes rushing up to meet them both, Sirius has caught up to the eagle. He twists in midair, darting forward to draw the bird from the sky by its wings. With his heart racing - and his prize struggling in his grasp, drawing bloody lines down his chest with its talons, wings thrusting like he’s still free - Sirius drops the last few yards and lands.
For a moment he holds the bird out before him, silver eyes meeting his golden ones, one curious, the other guarded. Both of them are panting, but both have stopped struggling; the eagle stares at him now, wings drooping, beak parted, chest rising and falling quickly. It cries at him once, the weak-sounding whistle just loud enough to grate against his ears. And he continues to stare, for just a moment longer.
Because he has never caught something before, and then gotten to decide for himself what to do with it.
It still feels strange sometimes, living on his own whim.
Finally he lets it go, freeing the bird with a flick of his telekinesis. For a moment it drops, unaware of its release; but then its wings catch the air, and three quick wingbeats later it is rising again.
@warset
@Sirius "speaks" notes: text
