05-09-2017, 12:36 AM
Canaan
so often times it happens that we live our lives in chains,
His wayward spirit had grown restless and tired of the smooth river stones and roaring, turbulent waters of the domain he called his own – and so he had set off, tucking himself away within the thick density of the woodland, weaving seamlessly through the many dry, wiry branches that hung precariously overhead. The serenity tendered by the undisturbed quiet of the thicket is soothing, but not enough to entrap his attention nor his heart, which is pounding urgently against the taut confinement of his rib cage. He is unyielding, with determined hazel eyes set upon the dimly lit clearing that lay ahead of him – and as his muscled form emerges from the grove, the broad expanse of his dark wings becomes unfurled as they take to the sky, propelled by a sudden gust of wind conjured at his own will.The horizon is still pale with color – a soft orange, a dim periwinkle – and the sun is still lazily rising, its vibrant light cascading over the wavering stalks of vegetation and shimmering across the water of a wayward stream. The wind weaves its way through his long, unkempt tresses, and a quiet sigh presses past his dark lips – another day has gone, and another day has come.
Finally, with flawless grace (though flight was perhaps the only flawless thing about him – his ability to summon and harness the wind had taught him to manipulate the atmosphere to suit him), he is once again bound by gravity as his weight urges his long, languid limbs to the ground. With nothing but the soft whistling of birds tucked away within thickets scattered across the plain, he quietly observes the roving hilltops with their peaks and crests, and the boulders of varying sizes that embellish the horizon. It had no name, yet – it was known as the hills as much as his own was known as the river, and he could hardly stifle the chuckle reverberating within his throat. Simple, but factual.
Soon, he is within the company of several others – and though slumber is still tugging at the edges of his mind, a warm and genuine smile tugs at the creases of his mouth, as the instructions are spoken by a petite, speckled female. She is small – much smaller than he is, at least – but obviously a force to be reckoned with, with a boldness settled evenly within her confident tone of voice. He is reminded of his mother for a brief moment, of her fierce and vivacious personality, though he cannot imagine Crota has half as sharp a tongue as she.
Alas, he has found himself lost within his own thoughts again, and the countdown has begun. It is not long after she has listed off three numbers in reverse order that he is filtering through the swaying grain, his cheek brushing against the dry stalks as he seeks some semblance of color dotted along the emerald and gold of the terrain. It does not take long – one, and then two red pebbles, nestled next to a boulder twice his own size, hidden away by thistles and wildflowers. He does not pluck them from their hiding spot – instead, he wields the wind to sweep beneath them, carrying them behind him with a mellow breeze.
Another is found nearby, tucked behind a patch of crimson clovers – if it weren’t for a keen, watchful eye, he might have missed it, but soon it too follows him. A fourth is discovered bundled up next to a similarly sized orange pebble, and with a crooked grin, he uses the breeze to gather them as well. Red down, only three orange to go.
It is not long before the bleak sunlight causes a glimmer to catch his eye – another pebble, resting across the top of a much larger stone, as vivid and as orange as the last – another pebble, to join the rest. But soon, his unfettered luck has run out, and many stagnant minutes pass in which he does not find anything at all. With a huff of determined frustration, his search has led him to the waters’ edge, where his storming hazel eyes detect something hidden away within a dense thicket of dry brush. Just as his whiskered lips press against a bundle of glimmering orange pebbles, something hard and dense collides with his own cranium, and he is both jarred and startled – with a throbbing ache along his brow ridge.
Stunned, his eyes meet with hers, before a rumbling whiskey-rich laugh emerges from his throat. I’m sorry, she says, her voice laced with sweet honey and innocence. A crooked smile graces his own dark mouth then, as his heavy frosted forelock falls in the way of his amused stare. She is beautiful – a deeper gold than he is himself, and her dark navy tresses remind him of something that stirs his heartbeat from its steady rhythm. An unfamiliar face, but a pleasant one nonetheless.
”No problem – I didn’t see you there; I guess you didn’t see me either. I’m Canaan,” a pause. ”and yes, it seems we do. I only need the two, and I think I saw four. What do you say we split it up evenly?”
and we never even know we have the key.