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Fire burned into the night sky as it danced across the landscape. Its flames licked the stars above while it consumed the city below, skyscrapers gracefully falling with each leap it took. A symphony of screams and crying came floating its way through the charcoal, a chorus composed by pain and fear.
Everything is perfect. Utterly, undisputedly perfect.
… Is it?
Well, it's fire, of course it is! Fire is made to burn, to consume, that is its purpose. It was created to bring everything it could to a spectacular end and feed on the remains. It is the strongest natural force in this world, and it will take every pride in that.
But then… Why doesn't that feel right? Why does it keep feeling weaker and weaker by the second, despite growing so large? It should feel even more powerful, it is Fi… He. He is Fire. Wait, when did He start thinking He was an it? And why does He have the nauseating feeling that something's gone horrifically wrong?
Is He even supposed to be Fire in the first place?
Of course He was. He was great. Perfect. He is Fire. But the feeling won't go away. He tries, but He can't remember why this all feels so wrong, or who He was even supposed to be, if anyone at all. All He can comprehend is that He is so, so cold.
Heh.
Ironic.