The Gift of Dying

The Gift of Dying

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WpMetadataReadMatureOngoing13m
WpMetadataNoticeLast published Wed, Jul 27, 2016
Louis isn't sure what happened; one moment, he was diving toward the berry patch, the next, hanging helplessly entangled in a harsh, strong net. The more he struggled, the more his delicate wings and feathers seemed to shred and fall apart, and now he hung upside down, chest heaving with exertion. His blue eyes were blown wide in fear, his talons clenching tightly around thin air. "Well, well, well..." Louis' head whipped up in the direction of the voice, his neck nearly snapping. "What do we have here?" ----------------------------------------------------- Or, where Louis is an incredibly rare and elusive harpy, who just so happens to be less aware of his surroundings than he should be.
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(You got here just in time to let me know I was worth saving) Everything is different, yet so eerily comfortable and the same. There's silence for a moment, and everything is still like the world is holding it's breath and waiting for the right moment to exhale. And then Louis is choking and gasping and his eyes are so wide and innocent and blue like deep pools of azure sea water in the Caribbean and Harry is chanting his name, whispering it softly into the air like a prayer. He rolls Louis on to his side and helps him clear the water from his lungs and he doesn't stop saying his name: Louis, Louis, Louis. He's pulling the older lad's body to his own, sitting him up and wrapping his arms around his shivering frame and rubbing reassuring circles on his back with his thumb and he still doesn't stop because all he can think about is: Louis, Louis, Louis.

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