Once I whirled alone with the stars. Receding and drawing in, again and again unto infinity- drawing close to the light and retreating again, running my own path amongst the flaming angels that surrounded me. Watching the wax and wane of races, watching the stars flare in their own solitary communions. Running close to the sun, and turning away from it again. Year upon year upon year.
This was all a long time ago.
…
The people come, now and again, whirling in their own small flames. Flicking past, almost too fast to follow. It is impossible to focus on their tiny lives, their fleeting moments, when one is accustomed to watching the private lives of stars.
Sometimes they lay their hands upon my surface, warmth against the old old cool touch of stone. I can feel the rush of blood through hot palms. They brush the surface of my age and then go. They do not look deeply. Those who look deeply are rare, and often once they look they retreat, and do not try again. The small lives of humans are torn asunder when compared to the great weight that is my age.
Flares of light, heat, gas, metal surrounding me as I turn with my fellows… faster than anything, older than any human. A long time ago I twirled like a Dervish with the gods. Watching stars grow and die. Watching the years pass. I. I. The sun. The race. Emptiness.
…
Sometimes, the deeper-looking ones come back. Rarely, they come back, and look again. They ask for stories of the pass… of years… through emptiness. They ask for stories of eternity.
Sometimes, often, one comes close again. A bright flame, a bright tongue of strength. Curling tiny hands against stone and putting forehead against stone and letting tiny drops of moisture drop against stone. Against I.
My mother is gone, the flame tells me. Wetness slides down my surface. Dry for so long. It has been years since the sky opened and let liquid fall against my back. My mother has gone away. There was nothing I could do to stop it.
Liquid falls. It is bitter, bitter, imbued with salt. I can sense that. My mother died, and my sister let her go and couldn't do anything. I couldn't do anything. I should have been strong enough, shouldn't I? I should have been able to do something…
…
…once, I opened a gate to the heart of a star.
The heart, the heart. The heart of a star was never mine to see.
I saw them only from distance, I tell her, the yearning fire that leans against me. I turned around them once. The sun, the sun was all that held me. The sun. The sun and I have not spoken for many years. Once, I raced across emptiness…
…what…
what is…
mother?
Silence. The touch of flame. So close to sunlight. I miss freedom, I miss the emptiness, I miss the range that I followed. I miss the rush of fire through space.
I miss my mother, the flame tells me. She has a small frame, one that radiates power like sunlight. The sun was my only lord. The sun was all that held me.
Once, I could have done something for her. What should I have done?
The bitterness of moisture against me. The wet that drops from the eyes again. Mother, mother, mother, she says. I do not know of any mother.
Once, I fled from light and was drawn to it. Once, the sun was my only lord.
What should I have done?
END
June 13, 2005.
Yeah, I know… weird and most likely incomprehensible. Ah well, such is life I suppose…
If you're wondering who the narrator was, refer to the beginning of High Wizardry. Obvious hint: Kit talks with it.