Disclaimer: see chapter one
AN: I hope everyone had an enjoyable New Year and spent some quality time doing the things they enjoyed :D
It's been a while since I've done some updating due to a trip back to the mother country. A good trip, well, until the end, since I'm stuck in another airport.
Chapter Eight
Time is not linear, contrary to popular belief.
Time is not a full circle, either.
Time is whatever you make of it, pure platinum in liquid form. It has no shape, no structure, and no discernible pattern to follow.
Time exists in a state of constant flux, moulding and shaping itself any which way it likes. Time links the past to the present and the present to the future.
Time is a gift that keeps on giving until you run out of it.
The smoke rises up into the sky and I leave the previous charge for the new one. I pass through the years, I witness marriages, births, deaths, more births and more unions, but I never seem to leave this particular family. I observe how easily this family can expand and accommodate more to their herd, and unwillingly contract as they lose one of their numbers.
I don't know the exact timeframe, but I'd wager that I've travelled at least five years forward, give or take the odd couple of hours.
His family – a daughter, son-in-law and grandson – have gathered around his funeral pyre. The pyre consists of a fiery inferno. Surrounded by plenty of flammable material, the figure remains on his back, eagle spread, eyes wide open, skin melting into a puddle on the ground. He's a disfigured wax model.
On an irrational impulse, his son-in-law tries to lunge forward through the flames. It's a lesson in futility. A raging hot inferno is no match for the plastic-like properties of skin, especially without any fire resistant clothing. The blond backs off, cradling his burnt hands, crying out in pain.
Wimp, I think to myself, knowing it is that much worse for the person who is burning away.
The family holiday through the Malaysian jungle isn't going as they had planned. Freak lightning storms ignited the trees surrounding them and they haven't got the hope of International Rescue coming to their aid; the rescue organisation is busy dealing with cyclone devastation elsewhere.
"Kyrano!" the towhead yells.
"Father!" the raven haired woman cries out. Another lesson in futility.
I watch them retreat as I slide easily through the amber glow and squat down beside him. He blinks up at me and the light flickers in and out of his eyes. It could be an illusion, the flames dancing around him, but I know better.
I invite him to rise up to my level, rise up as an equal and depart this land with me. He shrugs his shoulders neatly and nods. A man connected to Nature, he is well aware of the Circle of Life, the ebbing and flowing of tides, the seasons of change, the experiences that come with age, the fact that everything that lives must die.
He is not a lamb being led to slaughter; he is the trailblazer.
He is the example that the rest of the people in his family – immediate and extended – will follow.