04-01-2017, 08:50 PM
Canaan
so often times it happens that we live our lives in chains,
He had always been restless – since the moment his lungs had been filled with their first gasp of air, the adrenaline surged within his veins, and the wanderlust lingered in the very marrow of his bones. Though he had once been content to be nestled against the flank of his mother, the time had come in which he had to come into his own. Soon, the familiar ache for something else, for somewhere else had become overwhelming, and so he tore away from the proverbial heartstrings that kept him tied to the volcanic ash and molten rock that had been his own. The sun had risen and fallen many times since the day he finally pried himself away, tucking himself within the shadow of a dark, hazy evening without so much as a word to anyone. The days had turned into months, which eventually faded into years, and still his wandering heart urged him on, never sated to simply remain in any one place for too long.
It did not quell the eventual longing for a familiar face, though, and every now and then, beneath a crescent moon or in the wake of an oncoming storm, the wayward wind would carry him home. To the gentle embrace of his mother and father, the carefree moments stolen away with a friend he had not seen in too long - always too long; age seemed to carelessly have its way with all those he loved - and even a cautious glance to an unfriendly face.
An unfriendly face.
A grimace crosses the usually serene features of his face, uncertainty and a shadow of disdain etched into the tense ridge of his jawline and the hollow of his cheek. Though he is tucked away within the thicket, with the dry and brittle branches of the many trees around him enveloping him in their shaded comfort, she is clear and fully visible to him. The light breeze that weaves through the vegetation carries his scent downwind along the ravenous path of the rapidly moving water, allowing him to remain hidden away from sight, as his gold flecked eyes observe her.
Tall, feminine, and no longer burdened with the spindly, gawking legs she had been born with, Magnificent is nothing less than as her name describes - but still, a small part of him dreads her presence, wary of what will become of it. She had never spoken so much as a neutral word to him, her tone often biting, and her words spiteful and terse. Yet when he had last seen her, not a word had been spoken at all. Nothing but a long, lingering glance, his hazel eyes boring into hers of amethyst, the weight of time and long buried memories rising to the surface shared between them.
With a soft sigh, he finally emerges from the thick brush, several wayward leaves tucked into the tangles of his dark, two-toned tresses.
"Magnificent," he begins, but he pauses, the ridge of his browline furrowing. Was there a stain of salty tears across her cheek, or were his eyes deceiving him? "your face is not one I expected to find. What are you doing here?"
and we never even know we have the key.