For kelkyag‘s Prompt.

It began when Hill Decima Insero was pregnant.

Pregnancy was neither a forbidden nor a mandatory activity (It created more workers, but took productivity from the pregnant worker), and thus the small sub-category of activities labeled “nesting” were also neither forbidden nor mandatory.

Allen Prima Super Insero had learned to knit long ago, from a grandmother who had learned even longer ago. Crafts were another neither forbidden nor mandatory activity, as long as the supplies came out of your allowance (they filled the free-time recreation slot, assisted in morale, but did not directly benefit productivity), so, on their sustenance pauses, over the course of weeks, Allen Prima took Hill Decima aside and showed her how to knit, starting with a tiny yellow beanie.

Decima took to the activity, finding it a pleasant change from planting tiny seeds, and was soon accessing the old hard-copy archives to learn more about the craft, accessing her supply allowance for yarn, and finding scraps from the planting fields to craft into needles. Hill Primus was wrapped in knitting from head to toe for the first years of his life, much intriguing the crèche workers.

When Phillips Sexta Insero Minor found she was pregnant a year later, Decima took it on herself to teach the younger woman how to knit, and passed on to her her first pair of knitting needles, which had belonged to Allen Prima’s grandmother. A year later, when Martinez Septus Insero Major learned that his partner was pregnant, they both taught him.

The fourth year, they lobbied the Bureau of Days to make Learn to Knit an official holiday for the Planting division. It was early in the season, when the time could be spared, they argued, and, despite its categorization, it taught hand-eye coordination and produced things which were one, usable, two, beautiful (That being a morale-booster), and three, could often use otherwise junked materials.

It wasn’t their well-lain-out arguments that won them their new holiday (Martinex Septimus’ partner worked in the Bureau of Food and knew how to write reports that would be read and noted), as much as it was that the accompanied the petition with four things: a new hat for Smith Prima Super Diem’s young child, a skein of the softest yarn, a pair of handmade needles, and Allen Prima, to teach them the skill.

On the first official celebration of Learn to Knit day, they had attendees from every department in the complex. To seal the deal, Allen Prima arranged their labor to make a blanket for Johnson Secondus, Super-Super, who ran the department which ran the entire arcology.

By the third year, Johnson Secondus draped in handknits, the holiday was arcology-wide. By the seventh year, it had spread to nearby arcs.

“Worldwide is only a matter of time,” Allen Prima murmured. “Seven, eight, nine… there.” She worked placidly around on her newest project, a toque for Caesar Prima Caesara.

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For avia‘s Prompt. This, ah, wanted to be long.

The bells and chimes did not wake Uyllulla or Onolliy; they’d been up all night. They knew what this day was. They could read the calendar and the sun as well as any adult.

They had borne three sons in Uyllulla’s first litter, only to lose one to a roc and the second to the fall. They had only their runt left, little Yilly, and today they had to accept that they might lose him.

“We can try again,” Onolliy whispered, rubbing his hand over Uyllulla’s pouch. “We can try again, my love, my rainfall.”

“We can,” she admitted. They looked over to Yilly’s bed-nook, to see him rubbing his eyes and blinking. “Wha… what’s all the noise?”

By his age, most kits knew about the First Wind. Most had been whispering in school, told by the older ones about their experience. They’d seen it coming, peeked out over their family’s ledge when the years before flew out. Yilly should have known. But Yilly was a lazy boy, a fat, sleepy kit who liked to read and preferred staying further in town, where the ledges weren’t so many and the wind didn’t really reach. Yilly had few friends, lazy, silly, kits like himself, low-level kits. The older ones didn’t bother with him. Why bother, Uyllulla had heard a few mutter, when they didn’t know she was near. He wouldn’t survive the First Wind.

“It’s the flying day, baby,” she told him. Her sashes felt heavy today; near her, her mate was moving just as slowly. “Your First Wind.”

“My…” His ears flattened and the skin around his eyes reddened. “I’m not old enough. I’m not ready!”

“You are.” Onolliy’s voice was flat and hard, rocky. “You are.”

Then there was no time for talking; the masked and wrapped Fliers burst through the door. Through the wild hoods, shaped like rocs and dragons and even stranger creatures, their voices echoed and trembled. Nobody would know who it was who had worn the mask; every flier without kits of the right age took part. Nobody would know, if their kit didn’t make it, who had pushed.

And they were pushing, grabbing Yilly by his wrists and shoulders, shoving him towards the edge. Their home, like all in their city, opened up broad and wide onto the canyon below. Yilly had never gotten within ten feet of the edge, not since his brother had fallen. He’d never gotten near any ledge since then.

He was screaming. Uyllulla was screaming, even though she knew this had to be. A creature with a mask like a snake-demon was pressing her against the wall, keeping her and Onolliy from her kit, as they dragged him to the edge.

“To live, you must fly,” they intoned. “To breathe, you must fly. To survive, you must take the first steps out. You must step into the air.”

“No, no, mother, father, nooooo,” he screamed. Uyllulla bit her fist to keep herself quiet.

“Let me watch,” she whispered to the snake, muttering around her fist. He nodded, but didn’t let them go until the others dragged Yilly into the void.

Their glides snapped open, and they carried him out, out into the air. Uyllulla and Onolliy lived high up in the city; there wouldn’t be any others to ruin Yilly’s flight. But it would be a long fall for him.

He struggled in their hands until he realized where he was, and then he grew still. Praying, maybe? He’d never been devout. It took too much work.

“Fly with the Wind,” Uyllulla whispered. “Catch the Wind, my son.”

The masked Fliers released him. He fell, fell, then snapped open his own glides, the long skin between arms and legs awkward. It slowed him, but he was spiraling, still going too fast, still falling towards the river.

“Watch,” Onolliy whispered. “Watch, my berry.” She watched.

She watched him fall, narrowly avoiding ruining a lower-level kit’s First Wind, narrowly avoiding being hit by another as they careened out of control. She watched him struggle, flapping his glides like a bird. She saw the river growing closer, with all its rocks. And then…

And then his bottom-level friends, with comfort and ease, grabbed his hands. Uyllulla couldn’t hear what they said, but the three of them shouted to him, and, guiding, pulling, half-carrying, they lifted him to the Wind.

She sagged against the wall, relieved, triste, happy, all at once. “He’s in their hands now.” He would live. He was no longer theirs to raise. And they could always try again.

Next: http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/347907.html

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For avia‘s prompt.

He was pure, pure in a way that was hard to come by in this day and age, cloistered, sheltered, and entirely untouched by sex, by pornography, by initiating fiction or racy photography.

His education, up in the tower built for him, was thorough, complete, in the subjects of history, mathematics, sciences, linguistics, politics, and literature. His penmanship was exquisite, his debate skills sublime, his Latin and Greek perfect, even his embroidery enviable.

The only hole, as it were, in his education was in the arts romantic and sexual. Every reference to sex, every kiss in every story, every love poem, every bawdy joke was cut from his reading. As carefully as he had been educated, he had been allowed to remain ignorant, nay, intentionally kept as pure as was possible.

Society can only hold back nature for so long, however, and there came a time when the young student, the snow-white pure boy began to have thoughts, feelings, that he had no words for.

His tutors pretended, for the moment, not to know what he was speaking of. They kept him chaperoned at all times, giving him no opportunity to explore his urges, giving him no outlet for his desire. They kept him lily-white, snow-white, pure. They kept him chaste, utterly chaste, while the urges he had no words for rose and rose.

They taught him fencing, boxing, martial arts. They gave him ways to tone his body, to give his urges an outlet. They taught him massage, yoga, t’ai chi. They shaped his body as they shaped his mind: perfect, innocent, and pure. And Wanting.

And then they restricted his physical activity for a month, stopped his fencing lessons, kept him from boxing, refused to fence with him, would not let him even do yoga.

And it was in that state, tense, innocent, and shaking with a desire he didn’t understand that they delivered him, finally, to the one he’d been prepared for… for Snow White to become, as they said, Rose Red.

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