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Angel Island is quiet as stars shimmer above, constellations of constellations of constellations, and sweet Gaia, it's breathtaking. The forces that be, life and death, the songs of the sun and life, the silence of the moon and death, all seem to have reckoned with each other, just for these few, small moments. Spiked gloves rest atop grass, and legs rest across the same green shades of nature. A yawn draws itself from the echidna, and though Knuckles doesn't intend on sleeping just yet, he can't help but feel that lulling pull after the breath has left his lungs.
Within himself is a storm of tumbling thoughts, a tornado-like swirl of them. They fight to be the main thing to plague his mind, but all of equal strength, fail to have one prevail o'er all the others. All except one.
They always say the eye of the storm is the place where it's calmest.
Knuckles breathes in and closes his eyes, rearranging himself to sit cross-legged, hands resting lightly on his knees. It's quiet, save for night ambiance of breezes that rustle the grass, light breathing, and small wild lifeforms going about their umbra drawn routines.
The eye of his storm is green, but it's not the Master Emerald, at least, not solely. The eyes of his storm are green, and the more he breathes, the bluer everything around them becomes. It's rare that Knuckles can have a moment in his head without this enigmous form, though he is having no problems being fully aware of who it is.
The unstoppable force to Knuckles' immovable object.
Knuckles has resigned himself to Angel Island for as far as he is concerned, the Emerald is more in need of his protection than his friends often are in need of his assistance. It was bitterly selfish, and though not untrue, was deflective. The red echidna could think of all the places in Mobius he'd wish to go, but would never leave the island simply because he wanted to travel. He might as well have been rooted to the ground, or made of the very same rocky earth the island was made of. If the island is to go down, he is to go careening with it.
The only promise the last echidna would pretend to want to keep.
It was his duty to protect his home, but it wasn't explained, and it was desolately lonely. Yet here he was, to remain guarding the Emerald, as well as until death.
Green calms the storm as the blue surrounding it miraculously stops swirling, and it's ironic as can be. In his mind's eye, all he can see is a cobalt hedgehog, self-proclaimed fastest creature on the planet. It was frustrating, frustrating as strong as the fact that Knuckles is red and Sonic is blue, unchanging as the sun rises in the day and the moon shines brightest at night. His hands clench into fists and he grumbles at nothing more than the heat rising to his face.
Sonic isn't enigmatic in the slightest. He's vibrant, warm, and quick. Light, the sun itself, almost. The hedgehog holds the world in the palm of his gloved hand, and if vines had never crept their way around Knuckles' legs, he could step forward and ask for a piece of it. He could leave. He could let himself feel, and his thoughts may never cycle crazily in his mind every time he thinks of the blue hedgehog.
If Sonic poses as the sun, Knuckles will selfishly pretend to be the moon. He shines not without the sun, and is bound to the planet that orbits it. He can change faces and phases, but he never leaves, and can only pull at the tide, wishing to feel its coolness wash over him.
Knuckles believed nothing would ever change, that the sun was forever to be far, and the planet he beloved dearly was ever to remain untouched. That he was bound to his island, and wouldn't leave. Unchanging, unchanging, unchanging.
He was foolish to think he could remain in stasis if he was in love with someone akin to an unstoppable force.
And the island is still quiet, the stars continue shining above, constellations of constellations of constellations, but none as iridescently as the hedgehog Knuckles had designated his sun. The echidna conjures an image of the hedgehog to his head once again, aching to see sunlight despite the dark hour it is. Purple irises behind red see nothing but blue, nothing but blue and love. His face heats up evermore, and he lets out a sigh before laying back and allowing his eyes to open.
The forces that be, life and death, the songs of the sun and life, the silence of the moon and death, though he doesn't yet realize it, are closer than originally thought to be. Spiked gloves rest open palmed on the grass, and another yawn draws itself from the echidna's chest.
With his nightly realization that things will not change because he won't move to change them, Knuckles sleeps.
When the sun will rise next, cobalt will rise with it, and contemplate what it means to have a moon.
Sweet Gaia, they are breathtaking.