[OOC] Vignette.
This is to follow up that last scene. It's my first vignette in a very long while, egads, so be gentle.
The fire.
It must have sensed, somehow, that she needed it to be there for her just that much longer. The flame didn't wither and die like she thought it would, but remained blazing in the crook of the fireplace while she knelt before it, her hands outstretched, her neck craned so her face could be that much closer. The biting, scalding sensation wasn't painful, or it was but it was /something/ and it felt /good/.
Virgil didn't cry. Not tonight. Crying was something she did when she couldn't think of anything else, couldn't find her way through the day's events and needed to just let something break.
Those nights happened more and more lately, not that anyone outside of her little circle would know. There was just her, her weyr, Siraqueth. She still came down for drills and meals with her smile in place, her hair put up, her face clean. Sometimes she used a little cream from her sister to lessen the redness around her eyes. Nobody knew. She remained an enigma.
Finally the fire gave up on itself; the cracking in two of one of the logs was like an apology. She found her legs surprisingly stable when she stood, muscles and bone alone aiding her in her rising. Her hands still tingled uncomfortably.
Automatic movements, relying on her memory alone, carried her through the steps of dressing Siraqueth. He waited there for her, still and watching, apparently calm. On the inside, where she shook and pitched like a ship at sea in a storm, he became that almost corporeal shape for her, warm hands and kind blue eyes. An image of him she made, one day when they were still weyrlings. It's grown with him, now.
Her fingers aren't clumsy in finding the straps up to his neck. She settles between his ridges, everything is normal, wraps the length of leather around her wrists twice.
Without needing a word, the dragon spreads his wings and spreads them some more until the gratuitous span of his sails is fully extended. The corded muscle in his haunches bunches, those slender forepaws push him upright; one fluid spring, all that tension snapping at once, sends him skyward.
Bitter wind whips at her face so she pulls the collar of her sweater up and ducks down against her partner's warmth. The joint that connects wings to shoulders moves not far from her face and the steady whoof, whoof of his strokes pummels her ears. All around her, while the Weyr rapidly falls away, there's only sky and cold and /him/ and she lets down her guard and lets it all in and feels everything.
It'll be a long night, a longer day tomorrow when the both of them are sore and aching. For now, all she can think of is...
Take me to the stars.
Anything, my lady.
The fire.
It must have sensed, somehow, that she needed it to be there for her just that much longer. The flame didn't wither and die like she thought it would, but remained blazing in the crook of the fireplace while she knelt before it, her hands outstretched, her neck craned so her face could be that much closer. The biting, scalding sensation wasn't painful, or it was but it was /something/ and it felt /good/.
Virgil didn't cry. Not tonight. Crying was something she did when she couldn't think of anything else, couldn't find her way through the day's events and needed to just let something break.
Those nights happened more and more lately, not that anyone outside of her little circle would know. There was just her, her weyr, Siraqueth. She still came down for drills and meals with her smile in place, her hair put up, her face clean. Sometimes she used a little cream from her sister to lessen the redness around her eyes. Nobody knew. She remained an enigma.
Finally the fire gave up on itself; the cracking in two of one of the logs was like an apology. She found her legs surprisingly stable when she stood, muscles and bone alone aiding her in her rising. Her hands still tingled uncomfortably.
Automatic movements, relying on her memory alone, carried her through the steps of dressing Siraqueth. He waited there for her, still and watching, apparently calm. On the inside, where she shook and pitched like a ship at sea in a storm, he became that almost corporeal shape for her, warm hands and kind blue eyes. An image of him she made, one day when they were still weyrlings. It's grown with him, now.
Her fingers aren't clumsy in finding the straps up to his neck. She settles between his ridges, everything is normal, wraps the length of leather around her wrists twice.
Without needing a word, the dragon spreads his wings and spreads them some more until the gratuitous span of his sails is fully extended. The corded muscle in his haunches bunches, those slender forepaws push him upright; one fluid spring, all that tension snapping at once, sends him skyward.
Bitter wind whips at her face so she pulls the collar of her sweater up and ducks down against her partner's warmth. The joint that connects wings to shoulders moves not far from her face and the steady whoof, whoof of his strokes pummels her ears. All around her, while the Weyr rapidly falls away, there's only sky and cold and /him/ and she lets down her guard and lets it all in and feels everything.
It'll be a long night, a longer day tomorrow when the both of them are sore and aching. For now, all she can think of is...
Take me to the stars.
Anything, my lady.