How Chicks Fly

Romanticised through the swooping of brooms and the glory of victories, the wind whipping through her hair and the breeze whooshing past her ears barely made it worth it. When the sky rolled and lurched, when fog blurred her vision, when the wind blistered her cheeks — she could have dove down and stopped. Yet then, everything would halt for her: when the sunset smothered the sky in a golden veil of gorgeous paints, when her eyes could settle fondly on the distant smudge of sun disguised by clouds, when the world was bathed in a bronze that glimmered under the fading rays, she could almost forget she was risking her life.

In truth, the girl who had never before placed her life on the whims of a broom was terrified when she had first clasped onto the handle, fitting herself over the wood, and clutching onto her only anchor until her knuckles whitened. She had bit down a scream when she found the grounds below shrinking, barely containing her dignity upon her first flying class, undoubtedly behind. She had been dealing with her own turbulence on ground for those formative years. Yet they were unrelenting, but beyond their insistence, the sky called to her. For if you would teach a chick to fly, throw her from her perch.

Caught up in the madness of the human condition, the forever desire for more, mastering solid ground, open water, and resolute ice was not enough — her mediums would extend to the sky and further. She was not complacent with her feet on humble earth, and with her head already in the clouds, she was halfway there. Perhaps it was the dangerous recklessness of a dreamer that propelled her to subject herself to the early mornings and prolonged afternoons of the Quidditch team. And somehow, based on a merit she was not even aware of herself, she had been accepted into their ranks.

She had always wanted more. And now that she was receiving it, she was holding her brimming hands out, completely lost on what to do with them.

Newly appointed as second string keeper on the Durmstrang Quidditch team, the young witch harboured many anticipations for their upcoming summer match, and under the guidance of their kapitän, began to voice herself more in their trainings. She began to grow more active, working collaboratively with her younger keeper counterpart. Soon ambition overtook curiosity, and as she attended each practice, she found herself adding sessions, if not out of fidelity to her position, then a newfound passion. She no longer wobbled in strong gales, and flew unfettered through clouds. There was a freedom in the exhilaration, and there was a freedom in the command.

Until she lost it. Until it weighed her down as a reminder. Practice was usual, mundane, quotidian, yet it was in the most humdrum of circumstances that a mistake stood out all the more prominent. As a ball was slung at her, she dove to block it, pivoting her broom to the right in a hard sweep. Her body deflected on instinct, and before she could stop her own foolishness she was rushing forward. Ruthlessness overtook her own concern, and not even realising the impact to her body, her breaths were heavy as she retreated into the hoops.

Before the pain struck.

“Damn,” she gasped. Liliya’s hands pressed gently against her abdomen, where a bruise would be forming on soft flesh, its impact exacerbating the menstrual cramping she had already fought through for the practice. Biting back a stronger remark, she straightened, and letting out a sharp sigh as she loosened her hair, descended from the heights on sheer willpower.

@Astrid Olsen | banner by Camille de Varenne