"Luke? We’re set to rendezvous with Ullr in about fifteen minutes.” Atlas says, coming into the Navs room only to cross over to a porthole and stare out at the plains stretching out beneath them.

“You’ve never been out on the Range? Are you serious?” Luke asks, dumbfounded, because Obesk Range is famous, famous for being at once beautiful and dangerous, like everything else of the islands, but also for the ability to see for miles in every direction when to the east and west mountains rise out of the earth like so many teeth.

Atlas nods, barely, and goes a bit slack-jawed as the sun edges out from behind a cloud and sets the quartz heavy knolls aglitter.

“I’ll just leave you two alone then,” Luke mutters, rolling the map he’d been studying up, but leaving it on the table, just so as to cause someone with full hands a bit of pain. “I’m going over to my room for a jacket, head up to the top deck before you fog up the glass, the views much better.”

He wanders out of the Navs room and down the short hallway to his; August or not, the wind is always blowing something fierce on the Range, thanks to the lack of anything taller than the occasional half-dead shrub. The door is open, which is annoying, because now everything inside will be all cold, and that’s exactly what he doesn’t need. Really, what’s the point of a fleece lined jacket if it’s got frost crystals?

The jacket in question is draped over his dresser, but maybe draped is the wrong word, because he has a distinct memory of throwing it quite forcefully, and thus smashing a mirror as it swung off its hook and to the ground. He’d have freaked out about the seven years bad luck if he wasn’t certain that a) his luck was bad enough as it was, and b) he wasn’t likely to see it to the end of the last mirror he broke anyway. Not exactly the most optimistic point of view, he knows. He snatches at the jacket, wincing as a shard of glass crunches under his boot, and right, he needs to change those too.

Probably he also needs to get Johnson in here to clean up the mirror and find him a new one.

Luke shucks his light jacket, careful not to drop it onto the floor, because he’d rather not go to put it back on later and find it dusted with glass bits, and shrugs into its fleece lined leather replacement, and no he didn’t just wriggle deeper into it, not at all, but it’s so warm, and fuzzy, and warm. Maybe smiling just a bit, he drops into his chair and yanks his boots off, these unceremoniously dumped in front of the dresser. On with the fleece lined boots, and, yay, he really does love these, annoying as it can be that he can’t wear sandals, ever. He ties them and is on his feet with about ten minutes to go until they’ll either have to land, or fly headlong into Ullr. He fair hurls himself up the stairs, because even if he’s seen it a dozen times over, the Range really is a sight to be hold.

He clears the top deck, and Atlas looks like he’s about to topple over the side, his feet just barely planted on the deck. Luke rolls his eyes, because the tiniest adjustment of the wind, and he’ll be down a lieutenant.

“Marshall and Sullivan up yet?” He asks, and joins Atlas at the rail, looking out at the dusty stretches of grass. Like most of the range, this land isn’t farmed, so the dirt is still very quartz heavy, and every so often as the wind nudges the clouds around, the sun catches it, and sets everything asparkle, and really, this place is quite something.

“No, Marshall said there were a few last things to secure before we attempt a landing, else we’ll blow sky high when we do.”

Luke raises an eyebrow. “That’s pleasant.”

“Mhm.” And Atlas is lost to the world again, which isn’t surprising, because Luke tries not to remember his first time on the Range, because it’s a bit embarrassing, even if he was only seven or so.

The wind picks up a bit, and Luke feels it, really feels it, and he thinks he might cry. He stumbles a bit, and steadies himself against the nearest thing, which would be Atlas, but holy crap, he can breathe again. He closes his eyes, and reaches, just reaches, and wipes the fluffy white clouds right out of the sky. He hears Atlas gasp, no feels it, doesn’t he, because he’s practically wrapped around the lieutenant at this point, and he feels just so alive. “Hell yes,” he breathes, and the world breathes with him. The air is chattering around him, welcoming him back, and he calms it with just a thought, soothes it, because he is back isn’t he, and even one day without this was much too much.

He relaxes, at last, at last, he’s been wound so tight ever since it rained and he was dry, and it’s a little like he’s drowning. He’s not quite ready to peel himself of Atlas, not yet, because probably he’d crumple to the ground, but he’s ready to open his eyes, and he does, not to the dank, lifeless world he’s been seeing ever since that storm on Abevri resisted his touch, but to the glittering, flowing plains and the blue, blue sky, and things are right again and it’s wonderful.

Previous: Scene 3-II

Scene 3-III

Next: Scene 3-IV