Work Text:
Valery’s wings are red as flame, the primaries and secondaries spreading out in unruly, shining tendrils. Boris, watching him climb into the bright sky, thinks he looks like a phoenix new-risen from the fire.
Boris’ own wings are silver-grey and sharp, like a gyrfalcon’s, that powerful northern hunter, built for speed and endurance. Sometimes he needs all that endurance to pursue Valery into the heights and catch him before he can fly too close to the sun. Then they fling their arms around each other, laughing, and surrender to gravity, falling together before breaking apart, spreading wide their wings and flying fast and far over the green land and clear water beneath them.
There are other people here too, people with the wings of turtle-doves, of hawks, the coal-black wings of crows. Khomyuk's wings are those of an owl, Athene's bird. Some of the younger folk have dragonfly or butterfly wings.
Close to the ground are small buzzing creatures with wings that can’t lift them more than a few centimetres off the ground, try as they might. One of them looks like a cockroach at first glance. Look closer, and you’ll see it has the face of Charkov. Other faces are familiar too. They can see the joyous spirits high in the air above them – but they never reach them, and never touch them again.