the rocks might melt; the sea may burn. || exist

[Canaan]

well, the good ol' days may not return,
and the rocks might melt, and the sea may burn.

  The air is warm; uncomfortably so. The sun in all of its brilliant splendor has since dipped beyond the fading horizon, its light tucked away beneath the rim of lightly dusted mountain peaks, giving way to the resplendence of darkness as it settles into the void. Yet, the gentle glimmer of starlight cannot keep the humidity at bay, and so the evening has a beauty tainted by discomfort and dismay. The way that it weaves wicked beads of sweat between his tightly knit feathers cause his otherwise stoic expression to stir, but with a sharp roll of his left shoulder, the droplets fall away and he is left once again to the deepest recesses of his mind.

   A whispering breeze carries through at last, giving a fragment of solace to the otherwise stagnant heat. Another bead of sweat stains the pale gold of his skin, dripping down and disappearing into his dark, damp tresses. His thick lashes close over his deep, thoughtful hazel eyes as he savors the bristling sensation across the length of his spine, the faintest of smiles tugging at the corner of his whiskered mouth. He cannot fault the moon for what the sun has done, but what wouldn't he do to be able to draw a heavier gust of wind his way, to sweep the unnatural heat away to the southern border? A low, rumbling chuckle reverberates from deep within his chest. A fool can dream.

   He finally draws away from the shadows of a looming branch, no longer needing the soothing caress of its shadow, his eyes glued to the blanket of stars that loom overhead. He is growing, slowly but steadily, into brawn and muscle, not unlike his own father. His gentle, youthful features are giving way to hardened lines, and the hefty plumage folded tightly against his toned physique grow with each dull, passing day - but still, he is young, oblivious to the bloodshed and history that has been so carefully folded and tucked within the bedrock below him. Only time would be able to pry away at his optimism, and only time could show him the darkest, deepest secrets the shadows have to offer.

   His mind falls away to an old memory, of his mother's prying lips against his lopsided mane, of his father's quiet but solid presence - the stars had fallen that night, crossing the midnight divide with their fleeting light, and he had been captivated. The grandeur of the sky had always enthralled him. The drifting, blossoming clouds. The way the sun would rise and set in the sky, painting it in various hues of cobalt, indigo, magenta and tangerine along its journey. The sky is where he felt he belonged most, with the wind beneath his wings and the brim of an endless sky just beyond his reach. Nothing had ever come close. 

   Suddenly, his reverie is broken, shattered by the brunt of his own shoulder making contact with the solid, rounded flank of another. His hazel eyes widen, startled by the apricot-painted figure before him, but soon his shock gives way to mild amusement and - dare he admit it, embarrassment? A half-hearted laugh emerges, and a sheepish, yet almost impish smile tugs at both corners of his mouth. "I'm so sorry, Exist - I was .. preoccupied; I didn't see you." Standing plainly in the middle of a vast, open grassland. Right. Idiot. "What I mean is - nevermind. What are you doing out so late?"

Canaan