Storm

Loneliness hurts like that biting cold in the chest from when the magic first came. Frozen tears breaking as they fell, hiding under a blanket fort. The Templars will come.

Sometimes it hurts like fire. Scorching hands, a charred leg. It hurts. He burned. All my fault. They should take me; they should lock me. They have to come for me.

Not hope, just dark. Not a beacon, but a small fire caught in a storm. The storm grows and darkens but all around is hope and bright.

I won’t give up. I won’t. I refuse. But they are already on the floor. Every night sleepless. The weight of everything crashing down.

The skies will fall.

Extended arms and warmth. The stone embraces, pride humbles, laughter over burn pastries and compassion over shared losses.

I can’t give up.

The scorching pits at their stomach are gone. The icy hands that clutched their throat no more.

It feels like lightning, like when the first spark came snapping between their fingers and reached the one who hurt their love.

It feels like the right kind of hurt, the good kind of worry. They’re lightning, not the light, not the storm.

Let them come. Let it fall. I will fight.