Disclaimer: Sega owns the Sonic franchise. The definition of the title is from an online dictionary.
Turquoise, sky blue, cyan, ultramarine, these shades blended themselves together in a seamless display of cohesion. Flickering uncertainly in the light, shadows chased each other across the riverbed, running over monolithic boulders seated in their age-old home. Morphing spheres of air bubbled their way out of his mouth, headed for the surface. His eyes stung lightly, water flowing around his face as he finally broke out of the river surface like a sea serpent, shaking his head around and causing droplets of clear liquid to fall in a rain on the sandy bank.
Refreshed, he lowered himself to the ground and sat on his heels in a squatting position. The shoes on his feet had not been removed for his dip in the river; his gloves, however, were draped limply on the ground next to him.
He drew a taloned finger sharply across the sand. The imprint was shallow; as he lifted his paw the setting sun cast flickering shadows along the length of the furrow. Holding the finger to his eyes, he dispassionately examined the loose particles of grit clinging to the claw. Golden brown in colour, with the subtle nuances of shading and gradient thrown into greater contrast by the rays which fell, wavering, onto that upheld digit.
A fresh breeze gusted past him, ruffling his fur and bringing the grains of sand with it on its long journey. For that short time, the sand would have its freedom, golden particles riding the wind; but only for as long as the wind would carry it. Sooner or later, that wild, divine force would tire of the game, tire of buffeting the grains about, and allow them to slip from its grasp, falling, falling, to the faraway ground. Their glory was temporal.
Temporal, insignificant, worthless, annoyances easily cast aside, he mused. Grasping a palmful of sand, he held it up to the eager wind, impassive pupils watching as they flew, spiraled aimlessly into the air. Following their wild fancies and whims was akin to throwing oneself off a mountain to prove that groundlings could fly. They had no tether to any solid duty, no anchor to reality, and that in itself was a dangerous thing. The last grains of sand lifted themselves off his curved hand, uncovering a small hard rock, cradled in his palm, refusing to lift off. Wind and rain could pound, but it would not make the rock leave his palm if he did not so wish.
Standing, he tossed the stone into the river, and started to pull his gloves back on. He had a duty to hold to, and nothing could make him abandon it. He would be the rock, not the sand. Fabric caught at the rough protrusions of bone and skin as he covered his namesakes up. Stepping into the forest at his back, he rapidly disappeared into the greenery, leaving the rock lying at the bottom of the riverbed.
What he did not know was that by the time the wind in his life picked up, the rock had been eroded into the very same sand he had once mocked.
