The smoldering cinders dance in the sky, moving to silent music only they can hear. They pirouette, and they twirl, flitting against the grey smoke. How could something be so breathtakingly beautiful and yet so vicious?
The embers float on the breeze. Some may die, small whimpers escaping as they fade into darkness, but others will light like butterflies on the trees, brushing against the leaves, as they kiss them gently.
The embers will only lie stationary for a moment. A small twist of air will send them back into the flurries of movement, and they will fly back to the dance floor, leaving small entities of themselves to be cared for by the trees. The trees will nurture, and in return, the embers will give radiance of the most terrible kind.
The massacre will fly through the trees, the grasslands, the sky, any clear space they can reach. The small dancers will caress the clouds, and hide in the smoke. They will twirl each other in a flurry of twists and turns that will be remembered for years. Remembered for being lovely. Devastating.
Eventually, the silent music will die. The embers will fall, no, float to the ground, fading like their fellows before them. Their small souls escape into the blazing heat of their parents, the smoldering flames of what they would have been, if they had not decided to dance.
The flames do not mourn their lost children; do not even know they have lost them. They carry on their alluring, cataclysmic duties, minds set to the work they must carry out. They are the Armageddon that must come before rebirth. Destruction must always come. It may be prolonged, even avoided for a time, but it must always come.
The blaze will move on, going through barriers as if they were the smoke that they themselves cast off. They will move on until they fade out and die like their children before them, or until they are forcefully stopped by either rain or man.
When the onslaught is put to an end, when the dying elegance, in the midst of gasping breaths, glance behind their shoulders and see the ruin, they will smile to themselves, happy with the work they have done. They will lie down quietly, and fade away, their ashes dancing in the wind as their children did, leaving behind the paths of beautiful carnage.
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