It's taken a lifetime to lose my way
All the wasted time on my hands turns to sand
This story of vengeance wasn’t of blood for blood or eye for eye. They’d been willing, but the impact had been lessened, sent to lick their wounds, to reassemble amongst snowy crags and apertures, huddled in caves, clambering for ruses, for schemes, for a way to manifest their contempt all over again. “The revenge,” and he nodded, hastening another series of flurries and flakes as they walked – filtering them lightly against the sun, so they glistened despite the melancholy labored and lingering within the story. “We gathered what was left of us in caves, along the outskirts of some mountains.” And here she might recognize the beginning of his icy, glacial proclivities, where the harsh void scarcely mattered to him, not after they’d survived the Siberian cavalcade, thriving on their hate. “We sent out spies and thieves to harass them. Soldiers to attack them. To show we were still out there.” The snow churned into outlets of caverns, recollections of vast tundra, not unlike the world they crossed now.
His head lifted, out along the horizon, yielding a breath, indifferent towards the potential judgment. They’d done what they could – obstinate and proud, belligerent and contemptuous, yearning for a piece of what they’d tried to save, to salvage. “Our antics irritated, but we gained attention from another being too.” From the rime, his images shifted, changed, altered, into the rise of summits, into spectacular, dazzling hues over their heights, the shape, the contortion, of auroras bleeding their particular array along crowns and vestiges – a lake that never froze – a world he couldn’t, wouldn’t, have again. “The God of Time sought us out, and granted us a land called the Aurora Basin.” Only then did he incline his gaze towards her, a particular arch to his brow as he sighed.
And perhaps the best show of retribution and retaliation was that they had survived, long enough to rise again – frozen phoenixes in their wrathful cinders.
His head lifted, out along the horizon, yielding a breath, indifferent towards the potential judgment. They’d done what they could – obstinate and proud, belligerent and contemptuous, yearning for a piece of what they’d tried to save, to salvage. “Our antics irritated, but we gained attention from another being too.” From the rime, his images shifted, changed, altered, into the rise of summits, into spectacular, dazzling hues over their heights, the shape, the contortion, of auroras bleeding their particular array along crowns and vestiges – a lake that never froze – a world he couldn’t, wouldn’t, have again. “The God of Time sought us out, and granted us a land called the Aurora Basin.” Only then did he incline his gaze towards her, a particular arch to his brow as he sighed.
And perhaps the best show of retribution and retaliation was that they had survived, long enough to rise again – frozen phoenixes in their wrathful cinders.
I'm fine in the fire
I feed on the friction
