Flying Free

Andromeda was running. She knew that, in an abstract way, the way she knew (could see) every tree, every leaf, that reached out to hold her. The way she knew that she was alone. But her attention was focused on shielding (dodging, slipping, shifting the hard angles of her occlumency shields as they shuddered under the pressures raw magic could exert) herself against the buffeting forces of magic that sought to hold her (trap her, hurt her). Twisting out of the way of a gust of (wind) power (raw strength, but nothing more) she threw herself over the wardstone, its (channeled, controlled, true) magic surging through her (trusting her).

Stumbling as she landed (painwrongpainbrokenpainMOVE!) she fumbled (tired, so tired) to brace her shields (slipping through her grasp) to block the latest assault, when (pale-gold-platinum) a crosscurrent of power knocked it aside. Forcing herself even faster, she felt (black-dark) a subtler, deeper magic flow into her (healing her, giving her strength). And she smiled. Trixie never did care much for rules. And with her direct assistance, the others (mother, father) would never see Cissy's (shield-strength-current) as anything but another attack on her. Focusing her magic (Fly, Meda. Be free.) she twisted, flowing in then out (pale-dark power rushing to cushion the blows flying through her shield) and launched.

From the window of their tower in Black Castle, two sisters watched as a golden eagle soared past the furthest boundaries of their home (and the world).