Lore, Poem, Sagas, Scenic, Short story, Weekend

In flames.

The flames will always tell a story, they always speak in quiet words. Words forgotten and unheard, stories old and full of lessons and history alike are kept for those only who can hear.

Hidden behind the brilliance of the flame so bright that those who would otherwise listen, stare instead to bask in light it brings such visions unseen. They look upon what they are shown rather than hear what is being said and know for certain that visions are all they need to know.

Enthralled by the heat and comfort, they stay close and see the world as nothing but a haze of warmth and heat, never hearing once the stories of biting cold and frozen chills. They feel what they have in the moment and know that this is what they is and all there will be.

In the smoke of the fires and smells of burning wood and coals, they find comfort in a memory that may or may be their own, of a camp and comfort. It is to them a moment of safety where no creatures approach and all there is to see is are the shapes and wisps of smoke rising and dancing from all layers the fire has.

And in the cracking of flame and fuel, in the roar of candle’s flame and bonfire alike, the sounds overwhelm the ears, so that only sounds are heard, but never anything to be distinguished as one from another.

And all along they never stop to take a rest from all their senses. Not once or ever long enough to know that senses can be made to lie, and visions can be corrupted. But the silent stories never heard or listened to with a careful ear can always come to show a truth that many wish not to hear.

Such is the way of a world that knows how to hear, but forgets to listen. Not just to what they’re told, but to what is forgotten and needs to be known, no matter the cost.


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