07-22-2017, 11:55 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.
Too much time had passed.
The sun had risen and the moon had fallen more times that he could possibly count, and yet still, he is confined to the jagged precipice and soft, supple sand along the shoreline. The tropical humidity of summer gave way to a tempestuous sea in the winter, and the many days, weeks and months had gone on without him – time is unyielding; steadfast and obstinate.
He had been captive for too long, and he had begun to grow restless and uneasy. An uncomfortable knot had formed in the pit of his belly and it had lingered there since his captivity had begun – and it had only grown in the days and weeks that followed the gladiator ring he had unwillingly been thrown into.
He had come out with a hefty bruise along his chest plate (it made it difficult to breathe, and even harder to walk – every step made felt like a sharpened dagger wedged between the bone and sinew of his body) and a sore ache along his hip, which had taken longer than he would have liked to heal because of his stubborn inability to remain solitary and still for too long.
A heavy sigh passes his dark lips, as his bright (yet tired – so tired; slumber still pulled wearily at his eyelids) eyes settle on the shoreline before him – it has become a source of comfort for him; a way to ease his restless mind. Eventually, he is drawn to the light – its bleak rays shining over his golden skin, weaving its light through the dense, finely preened feathers of his broad, russet wings.
The once subtle breeze is soon a forceful gust of his own doing. There is solace in feeling the wind entangle itself in his two-toned mane; in feeling the enveloping power of a harsh squall urging him along. The soft whistle of the air weaving its way between the dark caramel tinted feathers that line the broad plane of his wings soothes him, and even though the atmosphere is often unpredictable, there are very few moments in which he is content to simply be left with the stillness of stagnant air. He is lonely, painfully so, but he has grown comfortable in the silence and accustomed to the isolation.
He is certain that he could leave beyond the boundary if he desired – but he had seen how easily the pointed apex of each feather had been disintegrated into little else but dust, and with such little effort. She had seen him wield his wind manipulation in battle, but a gust would not keep her from harming him or those he cared for. He did not know the depth of her power, nor of her prowess, but she knew too much. Heartfire knew his mother, and had somehow obtained information as to her connection to him and to his whereabouts – he did not want any harm to come to Circinae; to his sons.
His sons.
He could not bear to think about either.
He would be a long distant memory to them by now –
Too much time had passed.
The sun had risen and the moon had fallen more times that he could possibly count, and yet still, he is confined to the jagged precipice and soft, supple sand along the shoreline. The tropical humidity of summer gave way to a tempestuous sea in the winter, and the many days, weeks and months had gone on without him – time is unyielding; steadfast and obstinate.
He had been captive for too long, and he had begun to grow restless and uneasy. An uncomfortable knot had formed in the pit of his belly and it had lingered there since his captivity had begun – and it had only grown in the days and weeks that followed the gladiator ring he had unwillingly been thrown into.
He had come out with a hefty bruise along his chest plate (it made it difficult to breathe, and even harder to walk – every step made felt like a sharpened dagger wedged between the bone and sinew of his body) and a sore ache along his hip, which had taken longer than he would have liked to heal because of his stubborn inability to remain solitary and still for too long.
A heavy sigh passes his dark lips, as his bright (yet tired – so tired; slumber still pulled wearily at his eyelids) eyes settle on the shoreline before him – it has become a source of comfort for him; a way to ease his restless mind. Eventually, he is drawn to the light – its bleak rays shining over his golden skin, weaving its light through the dense, finely preened feathers of his broad, russet wings.
The once subtle breeze is soon a forceful gust of his own doing. There is solace in feeling the wind entangle itself in his two-toned mane; in feeling the enveloping power of a harsh squall urging him along. The soft whistle of the air weaving its way between the dark caramel tinted feathers that line the broad plane of his wings soothes him, and even though the atmosphere is often unpredictable, there are very few moments in which he is content to simply be left with the stillness of stagnant air. He is lonely, painfully so, but he has grown comfortable in the silence and accustomed to the isolation.
He is certain that he could leave beyond the boundary if he desired – but he had seen how easily the pointed apex of each feather had been disintegrated into little else but dust, and with such little effort. She had seen him wield his wind manipulation in battle, but a gust would not keep her from harming him or those he cared for. He did not know the depth of her power, nor of her prowess, but she knew too much. Heartfire knew his mother, and had somehow obtained information as to her connection to him and to his whereabouts – he did not want any harm to come to Circinae; to his sons.
His sons.
He could not bear to think about either.
He would be a long distant memory to them by now –
Too much time had passed.
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.