Jedao strokes where Quentin puts his hand, fascinated by the texture and shimmer of the scales, then wriggles on, heart pounding. If he could have gone with Revenant -
He's not thinking about that. He's with Quentin right now.
Then up they go. With a leap and a bound, Quentin hurls them into the air. His wings stretch, then beat powerfully. Up, and up and up into the blue, and then through that into the black. Jedao wants to fly, and doesn't want to fly alone, and Quentin can do that for him.
Jedao has never properly been on a planet's surface before; he should have stared more, at the strange flat color of the sky, the density of the grass, except that Quentin draws his focus, and now the strange illusion of horizon line curls and falls away melting wire. He gasps but the wind, wind like he's never once encountered in his life of ships and stations, literally steals the breath from his mouth.
Up, and up- it's a long time, spiraling high enough that his wings can't catch wind, then using magic to shove himself the last few feet with a roar and a spell, so the lift is no longer organic, the result of his bunching muscles. Those wings spread, like he's gliding, and then mist gives way to brilliant stars.
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He's not thinking about that. He's with Quentin right now.
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"Thank you," he whispers, with no belief that Quentin will be able to hear him.