Poem, Sagas, Scenic, Short story

The night’s chill.

The evenings come ever earlier as the season turns. The lights in the skies dance before the stars before the clouds hide the all, as if jealous of their luster.

By the light of a rumbling fire, whose subtle roar and crack is as a whisper telling tales to one who can hear, I do all I can to rest after yet another day has passed.

With drink and bread I sit to feel the flame upon my skin as I slake what thirst and hunger comes. I run my feet with open toes along the pelt upon the floor, the soft fur catching the heat and massaging as I go.

My bones ache from all I have done, I have not rested in weeks. The chill of winter has left me holding the thought of flame deep within my heart to stave off what the winter brings.

I shiver so to think what would happen should this fire depart my heart, should I be made to do anything in this most sacred time of rest. Just one small drink and one small meal, just one small sleep I need and seek before the day returns.

I await when fate will intervene and end the rest I need. For now however, while I can, I drink and listen to the fire.

 

 

 

 

A prompt response.

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