wrote one for the most recent prompt! this one is actually pretty happy. also, i got to explore one of my dragons as a child a bit :). and this turned out a lot longer than i thought it would?? i was originally going to have a second scene which was the actual first flight lesson, but the first scene got to be over a thousand words and came to a natural stopping point by itself, so i just left it as it was.
as always, constructive criticism is appreciated!
Prompt wrote:
"Will you teach me how to fly?"
"Not in this storm. But after," they promised.
Characters:
Lavinia,
Taurus
CWs: None
The day was stormy, the kind of storm that only got you a bit wet but that banged shutters and battered wings and broke branches. Worse still, it wasn’t going to let up by nightfall; bad luck, not sleeping in starlight, according to the more spiritual dragons in town. Lavinia could hear much grumbling towards the Windsinger and the Stormcatcher from her place by the town hall windows.
For her own part, she was mostly upset at losing her chance to stargaze, her self-appointed break and reward for babysitting Taurus for the day. (Why none of the others ever bothered to look after them, she didn’t know, but honestly, by now, there wasn’t any excuse. It’s been years of the same routine.)
Taurus themself was curled up by a window, looking out at the storm and trying to hide themself with their wings. (
Unpreened wings. Honestly. She was going to have to adopt this child herself at this rate.) Then, suddenly, they perked up, looking at something outside the window, apparently curious. “Huh,” they said, their voice holding more than a faint hint of child-like wonder. (Well. They
were a child. It was just that they didn’t seem like it very often. Which was…not great, huh.)
“What is it?” Lavinia asked, then winced at the harshness of it. (Gods, Taurus was
already going to grow up with emotional problems, and Lavinia was
not helping.)
“There’s a dragon flying out there. In the storm. Against the wind, too, I think,” Taurus replied.
“What? They’d have to be crazy to do that,” Lavinia said, even as she went to look out the window as well.
At first, she couldn’t see anything outside but trees and clouds, much less a dragon, but apparently Taurus could tell that she was struggling to see what they were talking about and pointed. “See?” they said.
Now that Taurus was pointing, she could tell what they meant, and yeah, it
did seem like a dragon, flying, in a storm, against the wind. A Spiral, Lavinia thought, based on how they wound their way through the sky.
“Huh,” Lavinia said, because even for Spirals, this weather was dangerous to fly in—actually, it was probably downright impossible to fly that fast with wind that strong against you. Unless…
Lavinia reached out with her magic-sense; the Spiral was at its far edges, even with hers being absurd in strength, but she managed. And her suspicions were confirmed when she sensed how much Wind magic the Spiral was using. Well, that explained that.
“I wonder how they’re doing it,” Taurus wondered aloud. “I mean, it’s gotta be hard flying like that.”
Lavinia would probably be an awful parent, if given half the chance, but let it never be said that she let harmless curiosity like this go unfulfilled. “Magic,” she said. “They’re using Wind magic to stop the wind from blowing at them, so it’s not as dangerous. Maybe they’re even giving themselves a tailwind, who knows.”
“Huh,” Taurus said, this time with an air of turning new information over in their head. Lavinia let them—it wouldn’t do much good to ask questions if you didn’t think about the answers you got (or didn’t get).
Then, all of a sudden, Taurus looked down at the floor, wings curling around themself. “I…” they started, but trailed off without actually saying anything.
“You what?” Lavinia asked, trying to infuse her words with more gentleness than before, and admittedly not getting it quite right.
“I—no one’s ever taught me how to fly before,” Taurus says. “I thought I would be able to learn by myself, but I could barely manage to
glide, an-and then I tried to ask Andromeda and Diana about it, but they didn’t help me, and I could never find a good time to talk to Vicindi or Veksa, so—so I haven’t learned how yet.”
Then they looked up at Lavinia with eyes shining with tears that didn’t fall, because Taurus wasn’t even six and they thought that they couldn’t cry, and asked, “Can you teach me how to fly?
Will you teach me how to fly?”
Oh, this was not a situation that Lavinia was equipped to handle. But Taurus had tried to go to four other dragons before her—four dragons that were
supposed to be
responsible for Taurus—and hadn’t gotten anything. (By the Shade, Lavinia really
would have to adopt them now. Well, not officially. But still.)
And as much as she hated to admit it, they probably wouldn’t get much help elsewhere. Taurus was so obviously an outcast; they looked mostly like an Imperial, but their antlers were too curly and their legs too long, and instead of two leathery wings they had four feathery ones. No one in this town
accepted them, or at least no one young enough or spry enough to teach them how to fly.
Except Lavinia.
And as much as Lavinia didn’t want to be responsible for Taurus, she knew that no one else would step up to it, and when their magic started acting up she would be the only one who would have any idea what to do. And besides that…she thought that Taurus should at least have a chance to learn how to fly, the chance to feel the wind beneath their wings and see Sornieth spread out like a blanket beneath them.
So yes, she would teach Taurus how to fly.
She was shocked out of her thoughts by a loud burst of thunder; suddenly reminded of the weather, she grimaced. “Not in this storm,” she said, and then watched as hope fell away from Taurus’s face. “But after,” she quickly swore, and then quickly looked over Taurus again. Gods, had anyone even ever taught them how to care for feathers? Probably not, actually. “And after we tidy your feathers—those wings are not fit for flying on right now.”
Taurus nodded quickly, a grin starting to spread across their face, before it froze, some unknown revelation stopping its progress. “Do you promise?” they asked meekly.
“Do I promise what?”
“To teach me how to fly, after the storm and after I clean my wings and stuff.”
Lavinia sighed. Not even six, this kid. “That’s when we’ll start, yeah. I promise.”
After this, Taurus finally let themself properly grin, and did an odd sort of subdued bounce towards her, continuing to circle her in the same way while saying “thank you, thank you, thank you” over and over.
“Yeah, yeah,” she muttered, which apparently was their cue to stop circling and instead bonk their head on her and hug her. (She did not remember Taurus being this enthusiastic or affectionate before.)
“Thank you,” they whisper again.
“Don’t mention it,” Lavinia replies.
I don’t think I could have chosen any other way.