It's taken a lifetime to lose my way
All the wasted time on my hands turns to sand
Had Deimos been of sound mind in that moment, he might’ve laughed at every absurdity too – from being called a moose (which called back to a former time, a former land, a former world he’d never see again) or pretty people. It was very doubtful the Sword had ever been heralded as a thing of beauty either.
But as the flames rose, as he permitted them to remain unhinged, unfurled, reaching, reaching, reaching for the stars, Chulane’s inquiries resounded and ricocheted through his mind. The ritual of fire and conflagration burst into brilliant streams of blinding hues, kindling and inciting them to be considered as auroras, as blistering figments across the sky, calling back to the Basin, as if coaxing his ghosts, his promised comrades, his beloved friends that could never return, to covet the earth.
Under normal circumstances, he probably wouldn’t have been able to answer the questions. They were for those of Natural inclinations, who’d lived and breathed and been born in these lands, not taken from everything they’d ever known. “Maybe they have human feelings?” Had he seen Safrin become angry, or upset? Had she once been sad? Were they like them at all? Did it matter, when one was infinite, eternal, and immortal? “Perhaps they were born like us? Or came into being.” And there he allowed a star pattern to explode – and perilously fall through a manifestation of a tower – like the Spire – reliving a moment when a goddess fell from the sky.
But as the flames rose, as he permitted them to remain unhinged, unfurled, reaching, reaching, reaching for the stars, Chulane’s inquiries resounded and ricocheted through his mind. The ritual of fire and conflagration burst into brilliant streams of blinding hues, kindling and inciting them to be considered as auroras, as blistering figments across the sky, calling back to the Basin, as if coaxing his ghosts, his promised comrades, his beloved friends that could never return, to covet the earth.
Under normal circumstances, he probably wouldn’t have been able to answer the questions. They were for those of Natural inclinations, who’d lived and breathed and been born in these lands, not taken from everything they’d ever known. “Maybe they have human feelings?” Had he seen Safrin become angry, or upset? Had she once been sad? Were they like them at all? Did it matter, when one was infinite, eternal, and immortal? “Perhaps they were born like us? Or came into being.” And there he allowed a star pattern to explode – and perilously fall through a manifestation of a tower – like the Spire – reliving a moment when a goddess fell from the sky.
I'm fine in the fire
I feed on the friction
