The world was on fire. Thick black smoke rose into the sky and blotted out the moon; night itself was plunged into a void. And in the center of it all, a shade stood.
It had been a light once. A hero swathed in sunshine only to have its heart broken. And broken and rent and bent and shattered until its chest was empty of all but a small dark shard that pulsed anger and hate.
Anger was a boon and a curse, for the shade plunged the world into turmoil. Fire ravaged the greenery. Storms bled the sky of the sun. Water turned to ice. And all suffered.
(The shade's laughter danced--it was winning; life could not beat it back down into submission now.)
(How blind; there was always further to fall.)
The shard pulsed once as a path of red roses bloomed but a lifetime of darkness... Red turned brown and decayed. Anger and hatred had turned inward and remorse bled into veins. But it was too late. The shade was evil; hope was dead.
And so the world was alit with flame--its own hatred taken out on that which lived despite its pain--until there was no one and there was nothing.
Eventually the fires must die and the smoke must clear. And the sky above was awash with stars. Dying lights watched the shade as it wept. Amongst themselves they whispered for they had seen the horrors and injustices that bright heart that endured. Perhaps in another land...
One by one the stars fell to kiss the shade's body; their whispers grew in volume until their was nothing but one word that echoed.
Atone.
And now many times again reborn the stars once more plead: remember your mistakes and learn from them.
Do better, child; make amends. Redeem yourself.
(Love.)