Aion… Aion… it is not a name unfamiliar to her, but still it takes Ianthe a moment to place it. It’s the name of a god, a primordial one, but she has heard no tales of Primordial’s walking since before the Titanomachy. Is that only because they wandered the land when Swifts flew? No. It mustn’t be. Aion must simply have been gifted the name as he was gifted his wings, a further sign of godly favour.
Simply – hah! – as if such a boon could be simple! To share a name with a god without being struck down for the sheer impudence… It’s a marvel, and it warms her to this god-favoured stallion despite how he huffed over her lack of acting ability (surely it is this lack of hers that so disturbs him, for what else can it be?) and turned his head away from the grotesque twist of her wing she has been determinedly not thinking about for as long as he has stood before her.
Only, she's thinking about it now, and she can’t stop. A grounded Swift is a dead one, and preserved by the gods or not, what use is she now? Her herd has swept away without her, and already they must think of her as dead if they think on her at all. And her wing aches: like overused muscles and rattled bones ache, like a bruise pressed on aches. And she could have ignored that, really, she could have, only she keeps catching sight of how it drapes on the ground, no longer entirely a part of her, and nausea turns her stomach.
And he, Aion, wants to look at it. Says he knows a thing or two of broken wings. And she wants to think on how he could know of something like that, but suddenly she’s too consumed by the same fear that rose as she plummeted to the earth. “I-,” she stops, utterly unsure of what to say. All at once, she feels so very young.
Ianthe knew, distantly, that she was not full grown, that her wings had not yet stretched to their full length, and her hind was still higher than her front, and that she still was not quite so filled out as some of the others, but she’d not felt like a child in… she can’t remember. But now she suddenly feels very small, and very scared, and very, very alone.
Aion is looking at her like he’s reaching into her soul, and she stares back, wide eyed and startled at the depths of her fear, shifting on unsteady feet. “Please?” He was… Aion had to be safe, right? He was god-favoured, and eager to help, and he… he said he knew about broken wings. He could… he would help her, wouldn’t he? “I don’t know what to do.” She admits in a whisper, shamed.
@Aion
Simply – hah! – as if such a boon could be simple! To share a name with a god without being struck down for the sheer impudence… It’s a marvel, and it warms her to this god-favoured stallion despite how he huffed over her lack of acting ability (surely it is this lack of hers that so disturbs him, for what else can it be?) and turned his head away from the grotesque twist of her wing she has been determinedly not thinking about for as long as he has stood before her.
Only, she's thinking about it now, and she can’t stop. A grounded Swift is a dead one, and preserved by the gods or not, what use is she now? Her herd has swept away without her, and already they must think of her as dead if they think on her at all. And her wing aches: like overused muscles and rattled bones ache, like a bruise pressed on aches. And she could have ignored that, really, she could have, only she keeps catching sight of how it drapes on the ground, no longer entirely a part of her, and nausea turns her stomach.
And he, Aion, wants to look at it. Says he knows a thing or two of broken wings. And she wants to think on how he could know of something like that, but suddenly she’s too consumed by the same fear that rose as she plummeted to the earth. “I-,” she stops, utterly unsure of what to say. All at once, she feels so very young.
Ianthe knew, distantly, that she was not full grown, that her wings had not yet stretched to their full length, and her hind was still higher than her front, and that she still was not quite so filled out as some of the others, but she’d not felt like a child in… she can’t remember. But now she suddenly feels very small, and very scared, and very, very alone.
Aion is looking at her like he’s reaching into her soul, and she stares back, wide eyed and startled at the depths of her fear, shifting on unsteady feet. “Please?” He was… Aion had to be safe, right? He was god-favoured, and eager to help, and he… he said he knew about broken wings. He could… he would help her, wouldn’t he? “I don’t know what to do.” She admits in a whisper, shamed.
@Aion
