out of order

i am in a million fragments
i am ravenfeathers curling in the fire, scattered ash
i am a black crane
i am alive

I am at the beginning of the world. My shell is blasted and broken, and tiny eternities have passed since I could draw myself together into a shape I recognize. A face that belongs to me. Hands. Limbs. Flesh and bone, sweat and blood, sinew and skin. My still-seared self burns—but let me burn, let me burn, because I'm still here.

And so is the world. And somewhere, a distant note of white music, I can hear the resonance of my dear priestess, her essence still connected with mine. I can't open my eyes—I can't scatter them and find her, look at her darling girlchild face, but she's still here. Arielle—Holden—even Gabriel, I can't be certain.

But the alchemist exists, surely. We've unfinished business.

At the beginning of the world, the landscape is as blasted and ancient as I. Sterile. Empty. I need blood. Faith. Fear. Love. Hate. Anything. A vassal to take in my hands and drain dry.

First, to rise. From ashes.