atlas,
He spent the early days of his youth in ivory towers far above the sea. Watching it from the balcony terrace of his bedroom as it foamed, white-mouthed, against the coast, did nothing to prepare him for seeing it up close and personal. Its power and sheer volume were dulled down to a simple roar by great heights and the comfort of wealth. The Al-Tarazad estate bordered the coast; most of the seven wealthiest families owned a portion of it, with the First family owning an entire island. Their estate had a magnificent marble bridge which led to a private landing. Slaves would row a splendid golden ferry to and fro at their master's behest. Atlas had never seen the island in person, but from the shore, it was a verdant smudge on the horizon, proliferated with transplanted greenery and probably sporting haciendas built on the backs and bones of the servants who died building them.
He was shaken from thoughts of his home by another form, revealed after he came to the top of a high, but not particularly difficult, ridge. Below, the steep cliff dropped down to white swirls in a purple sea. In her rapid arrival, Night was turning the tawny striations in the rock face eerie shades of black and blue.
Atlas didn't get out too often, but when he did, he stayed out for long periods of time; he'd never seen another venture to the cliffs as he did, in the last hours of the day or early ones of the morning. It seemed to him a very private venture, as here he was, struggling to find his peace and clear his head. He hesitated to move forward, tempted to duck back down the ridge and hope the stranger had not seen him; but he was distracted by what the stranger stood next to.
Trees on the coast-- like trees in the desert-- were a rarity. Layers of limestone and thick granite made for poor growing conditions, as they lacked a true layer of soil. Roots fought hard to prosper in rock. There were times, as well, when the tide was high and the wind was fierce that great waves of salinated water would roll over the cliff face and poison much of the less hardy plant life which had taken root. What few trees survived were robust species, mangroves, and palmettos, and flowering myrtles. They were usually short, thick, small, and had an oblong spread of branches, pushed by the wind and appearing like smears of brown paint in the sky.
This tree was different, though. At first, Atlas thought it was a rather large piece of driftwood, foisted up the rocks by a powerful storm surge. But as he looked-- and moved-- closer, he realized this was not the case. It was a young growth, but did not seem pressed by the presence of harsh winds; its roots were solidly in the ground and not forced over and bared; it was not encrusted in salt or dangling in flotsam.
Atlas enraptured by his curiosity, he did not even realize he had been moving closer; only when he heard the stranger speak did he freeze in place, mid-stride, neck elongated to get a closer look at the young tree. His brown eyes were white-edged and strained with stress and surprise. He flicked his gaze upwards at the stranger, a blackening shape in the falling night. He was looking out towards the horizon, and not at Atlas, which made him feel a little less like he was trespassing.
"Yes," he said lamely, torn between the beautiful sunset, the beautiful sea, their beautiful surroundings, the beautiful, impossible treeling... or the stranger's densely muscled and rugged features, discernable as lines of rippling, pink-hued light in the dusk. Atlas swallowed and cleared his throat, a gentle cough smothered by the winds. "I-- I hope I'm not interrupting," he continued, also lamely, struck by the stranger's size and solidity. "I've never..." he struggled to find the bravery to finish speaking. His voice was still shaky from his earlier panic-maddened flight, and his thoughts were a jumbled mess, made no better by the presence of a handsome stranger. "...never run into anyone else out here, but I suppose that couldn't last forever, huh?"
He tried to smile and only winced. Gods, he sounded stupid. There was a reason he avoided talking to people! And the reason was himself!
"Atlas" | @Rhone | sweet gay disaster
He was shaken from thoughts of his home by another form, revealed after he came to the top of a high, but not particularly difficult, ridge. Below, the steep cliff dropped down to white swirls in a purple sea. In her rapid arrival, Night was turning the tawny striations in the rock face eerie shades of black and blue.
Atlas didn't get out too often, but when he did, he stayed out for long periods of time; he'd never seen another venture to the cliffs as he did, in the last hours of the day or early ones of the morning. It seemed to him a very private venture, as here he was, struggling to find his peace and clear his head. He hesitated to move forward, tempted to duck back down the ridge and hope the stranger had not seen him; but he was distracted by what the stranger stood next to.
Trees on the coast-- like trees in the desert-- were a rarity. Layers of limestone and thick granite made for poor growing conditions, as they lacked a true layer of soil. Roots fought hard to prosper in rock. There were times, as well, when the tide was high and the wind was fierce that great waves of salinated water would roll over the cliff face and poison much of the less hardy plant life which had taken root. What few trees survived were robust species, mangroves, and palmettos, and flowering myrtles. They were usually short, thick, small, and had an oblong spread of branches, pushed by the wind and appearing like smears of brown paint in the sky.
This tree was different, though. At first, Atlas thought it was a rather large piece of driftwood, foisted up the rocks by a powerful storm surge. But as he looked-- and moved-- closer, he realized this was not the case. It was a young growth, but did not seem pressed by the presence of harsh winds; its roots were solidly in the ground and not forced over and bared; it was not encrusted in salt or dangling in flotsam.
Atlas enraptured by his curiosity, he did not even realize he had been moving closer; only when he heard the stranger speak did he freeze in place, mid-stride, neck elongated to get a closer look at the young tree. His brown eyes were white-edged and strained with stress and surprise. He flicked his gaze upwards at the stranger, a blackening shape in the falling night. He was looking out towards the horizon, and not at Atlas, which made him feel a little less like he was trespassing.
"Yes," he said lamely, torn between the beautiful sunset, the beautiful sea, their beautiful surroundings, the beautiful, impossible treeling... or the stranger's densely muscled and rugged features, discernable as lines of rippling, pink-hued light in the dusk. Atlas swallowed and cleared his throat, a gentle cough smothered by the winds. "I-- I hope I'm not interrupting," he continued, also lamely, struck by the stranger's size and solidity. "I've never..." he struggled to find the bravery to finish speaking. His voice was still shaky from his earlier panic-maddened flight, and his thoughts were a jumbled mess, made no better by the presence of a handsome stranger. "...never run into anyone else out here, but I suppose that couldn't last forever, huh?"
He tried to smile and only winced. Gods, he sounded stupid. There was a reason he avoided talking to people! And the reason was himself!
"Atlas" | @
