Sede Vacante

The light is on but no one is home.

The Drosophilic Isles


The Apostate Aflame stood on the shore, his red ember eyes gazed steadily across the ocean’s turbulent edge, searching for a glimpse of what lay beyond the horizon.  Beyond where the sea met the sky, he thought, there are more lands.  There must be.

A sharp pain pulled him from his reverie.  The water had lapped his toes and he winced and staggered back.  Where the water had touched him his flesh smoldered and turned black, cracking in bright red fissures.  He cursed himself for his distractedness. The sick-sweet smell of burnt flesh filled his nostrils.  He would be fine, of course.  In a few moments his feet would catch aflame once more and all he would have would be the memory of pain.

He stared back at the path he had taken and saw his footprints seared in glass on the sand.  Soon, he knew, he would leave his last tracks and walk into these waters to leave the Isles forever. Soon would come the pain wrought of the death of a life and the glorious maddening pain of rebirth.

But there was time still before that would have to come to pass.  Time to try to remember, to fix what he could.  Time to seek some last vestige or forgiveness or redemption.

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