Fire, glowing red and gold, rages through the night. The swampland beneath it, choked with greenery and the burden of life, burns to ashen black, to nothingness, but not to death. No, with every gust of wind and roar of flame lies a fiery new beginning, for the Motherfather, for her children, and also for two figures dancing above the swampfire. It's a pair of white feathers, golden in the firelight, riding precariously on the heated breath of the wildfire. Together they persevere through the smoke and flames, the sparks and burning debris, each never leaving the other's side, not even when a determined plume of flame snares one's feathery tip, setting it alight. Hardly a moment later its companion has joined it, burning with his sister.
Yet instead of taking them down, the flames seem to imbue the pair with new spirit. Where once they danced, now they fly, winging above the flames and through burning crowns of the trees, soaring into the sky, burnished by their fire and the light of the new dawn.
Yet instead of taking them down, the flames seem to imbue the pair with new spirit. Where once they danced, now they fly, winging above the flames and through burning crowns of the trees, soaring into the sky, burnished by their fire and the light of the new dawn.
