07-27-2017, 03:20 PM
I know it wasn't you who held me down;
heaven knows it wasn't you who set me free.
heaven knows it wasn't you who set me free.
He had not seen much of her.
She was far from cruel to him - her quiet, taunting voice held the promise of violence, should he resist, should he be tempted to put up a fight - but she had never harmed him. The edges of his disintegrated feathers had already begun to grow in, and soon he would once more be able to outstretch the broad expanse of his itching, aching russet feathers - but alas, the only wind beneath his winged appendages until that fateful day would be the gust he willfully wrought beneath them.
He had some semblance of freedom - he had quietly explored every crack and crevice of the cliffside, of its echoing caverns, of its tropical foliage. He had felt the salty brine of the sea (as warm, but not as tumultuous as the ocean that lapped hungrily at the shoreline of the volcanic island he had been born in) rise along the length of his thick, muscular legs - staining the pale gold of his skin into a deep and dark sienna. He had lain amid the swaying, gleaming flora and fauna that extended from the edge of the tallest bluff; he had bathed beneath the sun more often than he had shied away from it, and yet -
And yet -
He longed to be elsewhere.
It is no longer the insatiable wanderlust that is stirring the tension and agitation in his weary bones and anxious, twitching muscled limbs. The wanderlust had been sated, dimmed by the weight of fatherhood (a fatherhood he had yet to savor; he had missed so much already), doused by the way his chest became heavy and aching at the thought of his beloved, emerald wildflower (he loved her; he realized some time after he’d been held captive - he loved her).
He can feel her presence long before she is beside him, but he does not recoil. She is the living, breathing potential of danger, and yet, there is something altogether passive in her posture, in her voice. He was merely a pawn in some petty game. He has a difficult time suppressing the irritable coiling of his sinewy tendons when her skin brushes across the bristling feathers of his wing - he does not hate her; he does not even dislike her.
He merely does not understand her.
And she does not want him to.
They miss you, you know, she murmurs quietly, and his heart lurches.
It is a tendril of hope, quashed by the reality of his situation.
”I miss them,” he confesses softly, his gaze never averting from the crystalline sea ebbing eagerly at the pale sand below - he can feel her looking at him, considering him, but he does not flinch. ”how much longer, Heartfire? Every minute I spend here is a minute wasted, when I could be with them. You have children,” he mutters softly. ”and you know that I do - how can you be at ease with yourself?”
And then, finally, the depth of his brooding, hazel eyes meet with her own piercing set - his brow furrowed, uncertain. ”I have done what you have asked. I have stayed; I have done my time. Whatever my mother has done, whatever she has said ..”
It cannot compare to ruining a family.
She was far from cruel to him - her quiet, taunting voice held the promise of violence, should he resist, should he be tempted to put up a fight - but she had never harmed him. The edges of his disintegrated feathers had already begun to grow in, and soon he would once more be able to outstretch the broad expanse of his itching, aching russet feathers - but alas, the only wind beneath his winged appendages until that fateful day would be the gust he willfully wrought beneath them.
He had some semblance of freedom - he had quietly explored every crack and crevice of the cliffside, of its echoing caverns, of its tropical foliage. He had felt the salty brine of the sea (as warm, but not as tumultuous as the ocean that lapped hungrily at the shoreline of the volcanic island he had been born in) rise along the length of his thick, muscular legs - staining the pale gold of his skin into a deep and dark sienna. He had lain amid the swaying, gleaming flora and fauna that extended from the edge of the tallest bluff; he had bathed beneath the sun more often than he had shied away from it, and yet -
And yet -
He longed to be elsewhere.
It is no longer the insatiable wanderlust that is stirring the tension and agitation in his weary bones and anxious, twitching muscled limbs. The wanderlust had been sated, dimmed by the weight of fatherhood (a fatherhood he had yet to savor; he had missed so much already), doused by the way his chest became heavy and aching at the thought of his beloved, emerald wildflower (he loved her; he realized some time after he’d been held captive - he loved her).
He can feel her presence long before she is beside him, but he does not recoil. She is the living, breathing potential of danger, and yet, there is something altogether passive in her posture, in her voice. He was merely a pawn in some petty game. He has a difficult time suppressing the irritable coiling of his sinewy tendons when her skin brushes across the bristling feathers of his wing - he does not hate her; he does not even dislike her.
He merely does not understand her.
And she does not want him to.
They miss you, you know, she murmurs quietly, and his heart lurches.
It is a tendril of hope, quashed by the reality of his situation.
”I miss them,” he confesses softly, his gaze never averting from the crystalline sea ebbing eagerly at the pale sand below - he can feel her looking at him, considering him, but he does not flinch. ”how much longer, Heartfire? Every minute I spend here is a minute wasted, when I could be with them. You have children,” he mutters softly. ”and you know that I do - how can you be at ease with yourself?”
And then, finally, the depth of his brooding, hazel eyes meet with her own piercing set - his brow furrowed, uncertain. ”I have done what you have asked. I have stayed; I have done my time. Whatever my mother has done, whatever she has said ..”
It cannot compare to ruining a family.
CANAAN
so often times it happens that we live our lives in chains,
and we never even know we have the key.
and we never even know we have the key.