South Wind

“What?"

“You heard me, climb up! You said how dearly you wanted to join me, didn’t you? Besides, I will not waste half the day walking to the fairy hill, and I promise you that you will have a painless landing."

Osthryn steps forward gingerly, placing her hand on Silovar’s neck. The scales are surprisingly warm despite their metallic appearance. Her hand hovers lightly as she pauses, a lump forming in her throat. She catches his gaze, his cold steel-blue Dragon’s eye half as large as her whole person watching her every move.

“Do you promise me that you won’t let me fall?"

“What did I tell you? Climb up, and hold on tight."

Osthryn steels herself and climbs, settling between Silovar’s shoulder blades. There is not much in the way of hand-holds, but she leans forward and grips the large spines at the base of Silovar’s neck as well as she can. She scarcely has a hold on them before Silovar’s wings overshadow all her surroundings, and he leaps up into the sky with and unspeakably powerful thrust.

Osthryn leans down flat, closing her eyes tightly as he ascends. The beating of his wings rings loud in her ears, and the wind whips colder and colder past her face and hands the higher they go. She keeps her eyes tightly squeezed shut – vainly hoping that as long as she cannot see how high up she is that the solidity of Silovar under her would fool her into a sense of safety.

Slowly, as the beating of his wings ceases into a coasting soar, she allows herself to straighten up and look around. She opens her eyes, her grip immediately tightening as she feels her heartrate quicken. It is all she can do to keep her hold on his spines and not let herself swoon at the sight.

Silovar soars high over the valley. Soft, cotton clouds pass beneath them, the mountain peaks like mere pebbles from their vantage point. The green of the grass, trees, and small caps of lingering spring snow blend into a hazy tapestry, the river cutting a thin blue thread through the scene as it makes its way out to the sea.

It is perfectly quiet. Some birds fly at this altitude, but give way well before Silovar can reach them, as if deferring to his superior nature as a Dragon in the skies. A pair of wild wyverns join Silovar on either side, playfully flitting across his flight path before both darting straight down like arrowheads.

Osthryn watches them dive, snatching an unsuspecting migratory goose each, re-emerging in their airspace with their prey already half-eaten. Sufficiently occupied with their breakfasts, the wyverns let Silovar continue his flight with no further interest in teasing or playing with the Dragon. The colony of geese pass likewise unharried further South toward the coast, two members weaker than before.

Silovar continues west, and slowly Osthryn allows herself to relax. The barrier between herself and falling eventually feels strong enough that she loosens her grip on the spines. Osthryn marvels at the vast landscape she and Oswald had seen only partially by riverboat mere months before. They pass beneath a cloud, and Osthryn instinctively stretches up her arms to grab at it. A laugh escapes her lips as her usual imaginary cotton hand-hold turns out to be nothing more than cold water droplets caressing her fingertips. She slowly stretches out to her sides as far as she can go, spreading her arms as if they are wings.

“It’s beautiful," Osthryn sighs. She chances a look back down, but feels no fear. Silovar is sure and steady beneath her, and the occasional beat of his wings bring them like sails around her so encompassing that she feels she could not fall off even if she tried.

“You ready?"

“Ready for what?" Osthryn asks, her guard slamming in place, but not quickly enough.

Silovar rolls.

She tries to grab hold of the scales, but there is no purchase Osthryn can make as she tumbles freely from the sky. Too high. Too high up. Osthryn is convinced that she is falling faster and further than she ever had in her life. A war is declared within her, her nature cries out to fly. Her shoulder blades twist into the starting nubs of wings, and she watches as her hands slowly turn to bronze and her fingernails morph into hooked claws. Her conditioning violently forces any nature back down in submission to the depths of her soul. She can feel the Dragon beneath her skin, but she cannot call to it.

Osthryn closes her eyes, and waits for the pain to bloom across her back. Would she die this time? Every other occasion was just from a cliff face. Never from the sky. Never from above the clouds.

The pain never comes. She is met with a moderately rough but painless landing as Silovar sweeps beneath her, his back knocking the wind out of her, but sparing her from her usual fate.

Osthryn lies still, shivering. She feels their ascent begin again, Silovar’s beating wings carrying her back up beyond the clouds. Slowly she rolls over and grips the spines on Silovar’s neck. Her breath returns to her lungs, and with it, her voice.

“You promised that you would not let me fall!" Osthryn scolds, ire filling her chest, fuelled by the rapid beating of her frightened heart. “I promised that you would not have a painful landing. Did it hurt?" Silovar retorts, wholly unaffected by her anger. Angering her further.

“No," she admits after a long pause, acid dripping from her voice. “Excellent!" Silovar cries, and rolls again.

“SILOVAR!" Osthryn screams, fear coursing through her veins as the air whips past her falling body. She reaches up at the retreating figure of the Dragon as she falls, willing herself to return to him. She claws away from the ground, resenting the fall, dreading the repeat, hating Silovar with every fibre of her being. Scarcely a had moment passed before Silovar sweeps beneath her again and catches her. But to Osthryn it feels like an eternity.

“What are you doing?!" Osthryn demands, grabbing hold of the spines and clinging for dear life. She knows it is useless. They would slip from her grip the moment Silovar decides to roll again. “Getting you to trust me," Silovar states simply.

“You have a very strange way of doing that!"

“I won’t let you touch the ground. You will not be able to fail," Silovar assures her.

“I can’t fly, Silovar, please!"

“You can fly. Trust me!"

And with that, Silovar rolls again.

Osthryn lets herself fall. There is no way out of this, she knows that he would throw her off again and again until she at least tries. She closes her eyes and spreads out her arms, mimicking Silovar’s self-assurance and ease with which he flung himself off the cliff. Osthryn lets the wind whip past her, she feels the tug of her braid as it flies upwards. She opens her eyes and stares impassively at the sky, watching the cotton clouds that had so often played the role of imaginary handholds shrink into the masses of useless water droplets they truly are. She feels no need to reach up toward them, he would just catch her, and throw her off again.

He will catch her.

She forces herself in a spin, falling chest-first. She will not be punished for this. She will not be punished for not flying either. Silovar will catch her, and she would try again. Some way or another, today, she will fly. The bubbling hope fights against the conditioning of her elders. The phantom sensation of pain blooming across her back is blurred by the distinctive rush of wind as she sees Silovar sweep beneath her. Just then, she halts mid-fall.

Flounderingly, like a newborn deer, she is turned from falling downward to the ground to falling forwards to the mountain. The wings feel strange. It is akin to moving her shoulder blades independently of her arms, which she flails uselessly in tandem with her attempts at flapping her wings. Her concentration is so deeply rooted in the foreign sensation of her newfound wings that she scarcely notices that Silovar looms far less large beneath her than just before. Osthryn slowly makes her way toward the mountain range, Silovar following beneath. Ecstasy rises within her as the wings begin to make sense, and the mountain comes closer. Exhaustion soon overtakes her, and she begins to desperately coordinate a graceful landing. She cannot make it.

He will catch her.

As if the overwhelming sense of assurance that comes with the thought gives her permission, she falls back into herself all at once. The smoke of her transformation clears to reveal a small heap of shivering girl that Silovar once more safely catches upon his back.

“You said you wanted to fly," Silovar’s voice resounds in her mind again, with what could pass for a smile on a Dragon’s face.

“I was not ready for that," Osthryn replies weakly, slowly righting herself on Silovar’s back. She takes hold of the spines on his neck again, grateful for the low speed Silovar is now cruising at.

"You never would have been, but I had a good guess I could push you to give it a go."

“I could have died of fright!"

“If such a thing could happen to a Dragon, you would be the first," Silovar laughs, the wink evident in his voice.