He wanders quietly beneath the trees, pausing every so often to lift that delicate gold and dark face to a sky that is mostly hidden by a tangle of leaves and branches. He knows the sun is up there, as bright and beautiful as the marking on his skin, knows that it is swimming in the blue of an endless wind-scrubbed sky.
He had thought he would stay in the forest today, choosing a place he could pretend to be invisible in, where the shadows would slip silently over his skin and hold him close, invisible in their quiet dark. As though someone wouldn’t notice the scuffle-shush of his wings dragging along the ground beside him. His furrowed gaze drops from the glimpses of sky he catches through the treetops to settle heavily on those enormous gold and white wings sleeping limply at his sides. While the gold feathers were still bright and beautiful, soft as though soaked in morning sunshine, the faded white tips are crumpled and dark, bent from his wanderings.
They’ve always been too heavy to lift, all the times he’s tried resulting in painful spasms of trembling muscle along his back and shoulders. At first they had thought it was just because he had been born so small and slender, weak from birth and weak again when the plague turned his lungs to wet paper. But he barely got bigger, barely got stronger, and those beautiful wings still hang in their wretched slumber against his ribs. At least he was old enough now that he wasn’t constantly tripping over them. His legs, though still willowy and delicate, are longer now and have the learned grace of mistakes made many times over.
The furrows in his brow deepen as he blinks once, twice, and then looks away from the feathers and off into the nearby distance. He could stay beneath the trees as planned, the ghost of a once-murdered land, but a vision of the small meadow off to the west shapes in his mind and suddenly he is imagining how nice it would feel to sprawl out in the sunshine away from the worried eyes that follow him everywhere he goes. He doesn’t mind how much his family loves him, their kindness has always kept him well protected, and it is a comfort not to have to doubt that he is wanted. But sometimes doubt creeps in when the shadows slide across his skin, and he wonders if he’ll ever be strong enough to keep them safe, if these wings will always keep him anchored and a burden when he wishes to be more.
He sighs, those beautiful gold eyes dropping as he turns towards his sunshine meadow, already anticipating the smell of the flowers blooming there with an almost-smile that tumbles awkwardly across his mouth. He’s nearly there, and already the trees are set further apart and with wide enough gaps between the trunks that he can feel the moment the leaves break apart and sunshine falls in watery yellow dapples across his skin. He is mid-grin, his expression blissfully soft as those bright eyes lift skyward, when he is yanked to an abrupt stop. He yelps and yanks reflexively, flinching at the warning of pain that bids him be still.
His gaze is worried as he turns, searching that disoriented tangle of sunshine and shadow beneath the trees until his eyes settle on the mangled feathers of his wing wedged firmly between a gnarl of root and rock. Frowning, he gives the wing another tug but the replying shock of pain rippling up through the bone is enough of a reprimand. He wilts visibly, those enormous gold wings sinking even lower at his shoulders, his ears going soft and slack where they sit among the tangle of gold mane. “Why does this always happen.” His voice is soft, but it is not as young and sweet as it should be. The plague had taken its toll on him, and even after his lungs finally healed, his quiet voice still retains that sandpapery quality.
HARBINGER
the current is strong, my arms are weak
but you are the branch within my reach