This was supposed to be the beginning of an original story, but it took on a life of its own, and turned out to be more about Fanelia rather than the world that was burning in the other one. However, if you want to read the other version, which is barely different, there'll soon be a link in my profile.
Without further ado, I give you
On Phoenix Wings
Fanelia burned. Burned like the hell it had become. Brought to its knees, the nation wept tears of blood and flame.
And the smoke. Like a creeping spectre, infecting everything in its path. The acrid smell, the choking, blistering taste that lingers long after.
And the flames. Bright and terrible as a raging dragon, bursting with the flaring, fleeting glory of a dying sun. Scorching, searing, blazing, devouring all, a ravenous beast. A scalding memory, turned oddly chilling.
And the panic. So pronounced as to be almost tangible, nearly a blazing tang in the back of the throat. The taste remains disturbingly clear.
And the screams. Strains of chaotic, haunting melody, wailing a funeral hymn for the land. Even now, it does not fade, resounding, echoing, resonating through the forsaken ashes.
And the bodies. Chunks of charred, smouldering flesh; scattered, desecrated, dishonoured. Cinders float on the smog. Souls finally set free, to soar on Phoenix wings.
Fanelia burned.