To Speak of Colours
To dance upon the wind as another plane, to court the elements in purest form. To sing with thund'rous overtones, to play the trees as windpipes… to live within the other world.
He stands, a furtive smile flitting over his face, upon the mountain. The air is quiet, save the muse's laughter. She will say nothing, though: a lovers' quarrel, and he is safe.
And so it is that he moves with impunity as he leaps upward, gathering stormcloud in his hands as he goes. His laughter rings, sparkling, mercurial in the skyfields.
When he finally halts, glowing in the exertion and the starlight, there is a sizeable bundle of cloud-stuff under his arm. And, his eyes sparkling, he stops, glancing about; even with his hidden purpose, his motions flow, quicksilver on the dark night sky.
There is a hum, a quiet, beautifully resonant, tone that vibrates through the air. It does not seem to come from him, it ripples through the air, residual thunder shedding from the clouds as he kneads them. The insubstantial wisps glint in the moonlight, silvery against the moonlight, sparkling with unshed rain in places – flashing darkly, here and there.
Soon enough, the clouds take form under his guidance, and he holds a long, forked instrument in one hand, purer than any silver touched by men. It seems to glow under the stars, throwing off yet more light than it is given. His smile, radiant even in the darkness, completes the act.
Then, the sky is silent again. He stands, poised and ready, the long silver raised above his head, waiting. He waits, and waits, and the very stars seem to hold their breath with him. The air is still, the silver lies preparing, ready. The night stretches onward.
A long creak echoes, the splintered white glow moves closer. He tenses, and the fork seems to tremble in his fingers as the moon moves faster, now, prepared to race past them. A moment, no more, and the air changes.
Wild, beyond the scope of thought or control; pure instinctive energy, the air seems charged. He waits still, but the tension stretches.
Then, suddenly, the moment is upon him. The sphere is within reach, that purest form of wildness wherein he finds his match in mischief. A baited breath, no more, and he strikes, the silver fork lightly bouncing, for all its heavy thunder, as it hits. The note is pure, clear, moreso than any note heard in this world. It echoes through the heavens, a ripple in the silence that leaves the heartstrings sounding.
He is satisfied.
The fork is, half reverently, half playfully, hidden in the folds of his tunic as he sets himself carefully between the currents. A moment, a bare and wild grin, and he leaps from the heavens, the wild and untamed winds grabbing at him as he dives, his fall unchecked, from the stars, laughing as only the gods can laugh.
