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

[Canaan]

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

  Gently, the air begins to move, rolling and shifting around him – long stems of dried brush caress the length of his legs, swaying to and fro as a gust of wind begins to stir. Adrenaline courses through his veins, weaving its way through his intricate nervous system, eliciting a prickling sensation on the surface of his nerves. As his heart pounds harder within the tight confines of his chest, the air surges, pressing against each of them and winding its way around their bodies, causing his shoulder to brush against her own. The closely-knit feathers that line the hollow bones of his wings waver beneath the pressure, ruffling and bristling as the atmosphere convulses around them.

  Little did she realize that it was all his own doing – a closely kept secret, one that few knew or understood about him – the power to wield the atmosphere occupying the otherwise vacant space between the soil and the stars. Though he still understood very little of it, it had already become a part of him, interlacing itself within the very carbon fiber of his soul. The air, the wind, the sky - it was all intricately woven into him, as much a part of him as the marrow of his bones or the muscle that lay beneath his skin.

  A low, rumbling chuckle reverberates from somewhere in his chest, carried to her ear by the soft wafting breeze. He is hardly aware of the effect of his own words – merely banter, as easy and as free flowing as the quiet, trickling creek traversing its way through the plain. Yet, he cannot draw his own gaze away from hers, observing the way the pupils narrow and change with each uttered sentence, and suddenly he is overtly aware of himself in a way he cannot describe. The breeze changes again, becoming a heavy gust, stirring the otherwise placid summer air and soothing the warmth of his skin, which had suddenly become unbearable.

  ”Oh no, whatever will I do?” he muses, with a smirk tugging at the corner of his dark, painted lips. ”I should have known such a pretty face would be the end of me.” The carefree grin that follows is lopsided, laughter bubbling within his throat. ”All joking aside,” he pauses, the golden flecks within his hazel eyes boring into her own, studying the icy surface. ”I have found a secret or two.” He pauses, dwelling on the cavern system tucked away behind dense thickets at the base of the mountain, or the waterfall hidden away within the depths of the forest. ”You used to wander? Tell me, Circy,” the name is as smooth as a river stone against his tongue. ”what has finally kept you rooted?”

Canaan