For Sparrow, "Orange Sunsets" from the Sensory Prompts?
Aaaah thank you! Decided to use this opportunity to try and flesh out a headcanon I have for Sparrow--I'd say she's about six or seven in this scene.
The sun dips slow below the horizon, sending streaks of orange across the ever-changing waves moving back and forth on the ocean, a shimmering painting sprawled out below Sparrow. The gusts of wind strengthen the salty air and spray a near-constant haze of briny water onto the wet outcrop of cliff rock that Sparrow lies on. The rock digs into her back, but it's too small to move into another position, and the strong wind threatens to tug Sparrow off if she tries to adjust. She's lucky she hit the rock at all--without it, or if she does something wrong, she'll tumble down the rest of the way to where the waves crash against cliff face.
From above, Crow's voice carries down over the sound of crashing water. "Check in! How are we doing?"
"Cold!" Sparrow yells back. It's uncomfortable, but it's a good thing, because the side that had hit the rock when she'd first tumbled off the cliff hurts less now that she's too cold to feel it. "I'm being brave!"
She's said that every time Crow has asked, because when he first found her on the outcropping of rock, crying from the pain and shock and fear when she realized she wouldn't be able to climb back up from where she fell, babbling in panic, he'd told her to be patient and brave. So that's what she's doing--being brave until Crow saves her.
"Thatta girl. You're doing great." Crow sounds exactly like he always does--calm, lighthearted, like he's about to tell a joke or is already telling a joke that Sparrow doesn't understand. There's sounds of hammering, and then magic sparks in the air for an instant, leaving an acidic smell in its wake. "You know, if you wanted to learn to fly you could have tried talking to one of the azata. I know a few! I told you about the one I met last month, didn't I?"
He did, but Sparrow calls back, "I don't remember!"
"Oh ho, well let me tell you!" More hammering. "I was up at the Dreamer's Temple discussing a new tessellation form that they wanted to use in the next crystal tower--it's very cool, they're calling it direrose pattern, it's a non-periodic structure that's created an incredible basis for the base of the magic that will create the crystal--it'll be self-sustaining if the theory is correct--and I was there to see if that was actually, you know, feasible, and there was this one lady who you could tell wasn't just any regular aasimar--"
He goes on, but the words turn slushy, like the ice treats she buys sometimes out of the stand near Sinead's workshop after she's forgotten about it for a few hours in the afternoon sun. Her attention turns to the sunset, how the sun is mixing in with pink to create salmon streaks that darken into a lovely, dusky purple. The water looks like waving orange ribbon, and Sparrow watches the movement to the sound of Crow's soothing, laughing voice as he talks about the azata he met, the new tower he is going to help build, and the repeating shapes he's going to use to make it.
The next time she registers anything but the orange light on the water is when she feels a hand, scalding in its heat, against her clammy arm. She blinks, and Crow is there beside her--he's learned to fly, she thinks for a hazy second, before she sees the rope around his waist, stretching up and over the top of the cliff. His brown eyes are huge on his face, and white spots bracket the sides of his mouth, but when she makes eye contact he smiles. The wind whips his black hair across his face, and the orange sunset illuminates him from behind like he's a hero from a penny novel coming to save a princess.
His gaze moves to her body, where the salt spray soaking through her clothes can't fully hide the red that's seeped from the wound. His hand flutters over it, but doesn't touch, moving over her torso, then her leg. "Can you--? No, never mind."
"It's okay. You're going to be okay," he tells her. "It looks worse than it is. I'm going to pick you up, and it might hurt, but this rope will pull us up once I let go and you'll be back in your bed before it even gets dark. You understand?" After a pause, Crow says, "You gotta say you understand, Sparrow. Sparrow. Don't be scared."
"I'm going to be okay," Sparrow parrots. "It looks worse than it is. I'm not scared." She knows it's the truth. Crow will get her off the cliff, and he'll get her dry, and he'll put her to bed, and maybe if she asked nice enough he'll get her favorite soup from town too, even though it would be dark by the time he actually left. It's not the right season for it, but she wants something to make her warm.
Crow takes her in his arms, and it is painful but not really--like the pain is happening in another room, instead of right at her skin. And Crow is burning hot, and his arms are strong around her, and he is whispering in her ear, "You'll be okay, you'll be okay," and he lifts her up the wet cliff like he has wings like an azata, and the sun is so beautiful as it meets the ocean over his shoulder.
Orange is my favorite color, she thinks, and she closes her eyes to sleep.
