Rising Star, Constant Light

Darkness: not the velvet of the night sky, but the black of a void, of a nightmare. Movement is impossible. Breathing cannot be controlled; it is automated. He can hear sounds, but they are indiscernible, muffled to prevent understanding. He only knows he is lying on a bed, the scratchy sheet under him annoying him in a little back corner of his mind. The location eludes him.

He can only remember a sickly red light. He can only think of the sickly red light for a long time. All other thoughts - questions, images, and ideas - flash in his mind and disappear before he can grasp them. Except the idea that he wants this complete and utter lack of control, this prison, to end.

He continues to struggle against invisible bonds, but it’s futile. They hold him so tight that he can't even twitch, can't even blink. The numbness helps a bit, but he wants to end this oblivion. Voice unable to be heard, to be used, his mind screams in agony and frustration, screams a plea for help, screams a plea for redemption.

It seems long months and years are passing.

A woman, a quarter of the world away, wakes from an unsettled sleep.

* * * *

It is the wand that chooses the wizard. It is the magic that chooses the wand. But what chooses the magic?

* * * *

As fires die down and then are put out, the flickering and shimmering ashes return to the great river, joining the bright flow. Tributaries flow in. Rivulets drizzle out. Mists converge into the great gathering. Droplets float out. Light and dark intertwine, and if you look closely, you can see distinct sparks. One catches your eye. It is peach. But what is a peach spark doing in a river of black, white, and gray?

* * * *

A star is born amidst swirls of dust and heat and light. A star dies amidst bright explosions of energy and light, but fades away until the light is gone, dimming in the void. It is inevitable. But the lights dancing around each tiny star that are on the surface of Earth never fade, never die. They, with a mind of their own, converge at the birth of each tiny star, welcoming, in joyous salutation, the new light. Most of these are the common white, shining with life. A few are a sparkling, warm gray. In one or two spots, there is a cloud of black. But the rarest of all is the peach, the lone group, gathering in sporadic intervals. Yet, these few peaches seem to outshine everything else - they are the brightest, the strongest, the most sought-after, the most sorrow-filled.