It's nothing perfect, its nothing beautiful, for it is just the beginning.
He sat there within the silence of his bedchambers, eyes closed though his lids fluttered, thick, dark lashes brushing the gentle rise of his cheeks. The dawn of the morning slowly poured into his room, gentle beams of soft orange and yellow hues broke through the sheer cream curtains, splaying about his being. It wasn’t long before he was illuminated so warmly, almost lovingly in the morning sun’s rays. For a moment, his lids fluttered, eyes slowly opening, showing the rich hues of dark amber with speckles of honey brown. He peered outside through his curtains, eyeing the wondrous colors of the morning as the sun made its way into the sky. Watched the sky paint itself a fierce orange, blending into a rather calming, warm. There were splatters of vivid purple from the night sky, though they were washed away as the canvas of the sky was painted still, soothing reds with undertones of saffron and orangey carmine. And yet, these extraordinary did not last long, for they were washed away by the time the sun fully set itself within the peaks of the sky. No longer were there warm reds and inviting oranges, in their replacement was a blue, a wide expanse of a clear, solid powder blue.
There was not a cloud in sight.
He swallowed thickly as his eyes fluttered closed before opening once more. Slowly he sat up, having been resting in a well-carved, mahogany chair. His fingers gripped what seemed to be a quill, though his other hand was free, resting within his lap. For a moment, he sat there, eyeing the morning sky, listening to the birds that sung so prettily, his world seemed so at peace, so perfect, and yet.
He was missing what he wanted the most, what he needed, just to survive.