An image of the ocean, panoramic. We stand atop the cliff where the sharp winds of the north roll over us with all the speed of their unimpeded journey over the glassy surface of eternity. Leaves clamber over each other, tumbling across the yellowing grass, fleeing the bite of the cold. We stand, robed in little more than linen of the night sky.
We stand.
I do not reach to you.
As the senses are overwhelmed with the briny smell of the ocean, the roar of waves rushing over the jagged obsidian of memory, we lean into the wind. The expanse of the shimmering past ripples into the distance, the unfriendly winter sun unable to penetrate the surface. It calls us forth, and the wail of the winds becomes a call. Which of us calls forth to pass over?
I see you move forward, but I cannot reach for you. I see you prepare for flight, watch in horror as the cold wraps its arms around you, its razor-wire pulling your wings tight about you. I see your oblivion as the past calls, as a power more overwhelming than humanity calls, and you do not care that the cold is about to strangle you. You do not notice that you no longer have what you once had. With you poised before the memory of what was lost, before the fall into the grips of darkness, I can do no more than shift.
Caught between humanity and something beyond any such boundaries of reality, I burst into flight. From within, a star burns, and I harness this energy like only I can. I am made of fire and water; I take the cold into me and burn, wrapping coils of warmth around you as you leap. As I burn inside, you fly. Your wings are loosed and the sky is yours.
I am content to know I have given you the choice. You are free for as long as you choose to be.
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