Andarin: The Mountains: No, it isn't me, Luis. --

horse stock by colourize @ deviantArt ; photomanipulation by Lore

“ Death is the only god that comes when you call. ”
- Roger Zelazny

I doubt she will ever need it, the winds sigh soft as a baby’s breath, not if she is anything like her family. But I appreciate it, nonetheless.

Fire. It spirals out of me as I have only felt once, when I freed the savage in Desréal – a strange, shocking sensation, as if something went numb, dead, deep within me.

It hurts. But it isn’t mine.

Fire. It’s like a sick, dark presence and then – nothing. Only that muteness where something should exist and doesn’t.

Fire slung around his neck like a noose, catching and breaking – like a phantom limb, the screech of a shard faraway, before it dies, dies, dies.

Ah, sweet shard, lie dead in your captor’s breast. It’s not for this one to be a slave.

It’s done like this, quickly, surgically so, without more than a sigh from the wind – a wind that knows no fear, a wind that delights in ice and darkness; it plays with the loops of chain, with the pendant dangling lazily upon his chest, with the fire that spurts and stutters out of it.

It’s then that I know it’s time, that I have done enough.

There are things to be done.

And so it ends, my winds mutter. And so it begins anew.

FENRISULFR
an axe age, a sword age, shields will be cloven;
a wind age, a wolf age, ere the world sinks.