(A/N) Yeah. I'm not perfectly sure what to make of this, so I hope you'll tell me what you think. It all belongs to Frost and Rowlings.
Some say. Such a good way to start something; it distances you from the words, gives you immunity from the reaction. There's no responsibility in 'Some say….' Here, I'd like to categorically refuse to disclaim responsibility: I say this. I'm the one watching them die, one by one, so I'm the one expressing the opinion. Besides, being a Black isn't at all like being anyone else. Being a Black. Being Black, perhaps.
Desire and passion and tottering on the edge of madness because of the intensity of life: that's very Black. There were five of them and three chose fire. And they burnt as brightly as their stars, but, oh, so much more briefly. One hasn't time for fire any more; her daughter burns for her, and it's a pale, weak flame in comparison. He died through confinement, closing his passionate spirit in the soul's prison and the soul's guilt. And the last fell into the fire. She gave her mind and soul to the fire within her, and lost them both. She's red now, not Black.
Two chose ice. But ice melts, and he was melted by the apocalyptic fire of the three. He might have been fire, but there wasn't space, so he tried to be ice, and died. He died ice; he hated from the depths a soul wrapped in ice. She was born ice. She knew the cold, silent, impenetrable Black between stars, and that was where she drew her icy hate. It will serve, she says. It is sufficient: it need be no more.
Some say the world
will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've
tasted of desire
I hold with those
who favor fire.
But if it had to
perish twice,
I think I know
enough of hate
To say that for
destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
-Robert Frost