06-20-2017, 11:02 AM
Canaan
so often times it happens that we live our lives in chains,
She is soft, warm to the touch – and her voice, though soft and trembling, stirs emotion within the hearth of his chest, and with it, a surge of wind strokes through the basin, enveloping them and pressing them closer together. The darkened line of his mouth presses against her jaw, and once more to the crook of her neck, feeling her pulse thrum softly against his lips, savoring the moment – bittersweet, for there is a part of him that is uncertain that she is anything more than a dream.He is a fool; a blind one, at that.
Her words are just above a whisper, laced with humor and anguish, causing his brow line to furrow – perplexed. Gently, his dark, hazel eyes, laced with gold flecks that glimmer faintly in the pale light of the waning sun, study the terse line of her face – tension and agony rippling through her soft and delicate features. ”Circinae?” he murmurs, concern bubbling within his throat, as she breathes softly across his cheek.
It is then that he can feel a stirring against the finely preened surface of his wing, and with a wayward glance, he is slack-jawed and awestruck, staring incredulously at the swell of her barrel. He had been so enamored, so enthralled to see the emerald of her skin – the familiar, rich indigo of her haphazard, dampened tresses, he hadn’t even noticed. He hadn’t even noticed, and guilt, exhilaration, and all-encompassing, undeniable fear suddenly floods him.
The moment is stolen away by the veneration filling his heart, and softly, he touches the rounded protrusion of her stomach – and he is almost breathless; but perhaps not as breathless as she. In anguish, she is soon crumbling into a heap onto the thicket floor, amid dry brush and fallen leaves, prostrate and shuddering, and a fierce urge to protect her is suddenly as present within him as the marrow of his bones.
Quietly, peering into the darkest shadow of the woodland (with the occasional glance to her, to the small, utterly beautiful life being birthed from her with every heaving gasp), he is carved out to be something more than just a wayward wanderer, a windswept drifter, a passionate lover – he is a father.
The first emerges, as vivid and as gold as he is, but with a tendril of emerald coursing the length of its spine – and something akin to pride swells within him, and gently, he reaches down to tear away at the pliable sac, wiling his newly born son to breathe. He is beautiful - absolutely perfection, and yet his reverence is fleeting as Circinae cries out in agony – a beautiful, but wretched sound, echoing through the dense forest surrounding her.
Softly, his lips press against her dampened cheek, and he brushes away the long, wavy tresses that lay across her slickened forehead. A quiet but steady strength.
And then, the second is born – another son, and he is beyond elated. He, too, is gilded as his father, yet with the vivid indigo of his mother – and she is standing, panting and bleeding and wracked with exhaustion, and if there is anything more stunning in existence, he has yet to find it.
Would you like to name one? she asks him, and though he is still reeling – his heart pounding, his mind racing – he touches the firm line of his mouth across the forehead of his eldest son, before preening and attempting to dry the shining, seemingly iridescent feathers of his soft, downy wings.
”Corvus.” He breathes, staring into the bright, vivid eyes of each of his children, and then to her, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth. ”You are full of surprises, Circinae.”
and we never even know we have the key.
@[Circinae]