The air was sick, hanging on to the life that it gloomed over. A figure, wrapped thick in it, descended upon the Revellers, whispering words that thundered across the base on which they all stood.
That on which they stood shook, but they did not notice.
'You have shown your eagerness for reformation through your price tags!'
No-one moved save the figure, but it might have been in vain. The Revellers did not notice this figure, that which would raise its silence above the din. They did not see the terrible Blackness which followed the figure. They did not witness their Becoming. They listened with their mouths and drank with their eyes. Their mouths open wide, revealing glistening mirrors. They had no use for the Blackness.
'You need not your mirrors, for I am the only mirror who can show your reflection!'
They turned back to their dying.
The moon handed out its rays, giving each person the share they had or hadn't worked for. The Revellers stopped their mirth and opened upwards, filling their mouths with the warm glow of the Moon, while their eyes frothed a brilliant white. This was a picture worthy of paint, but there was no-one to paint it, save the figure. The figure was too sad to paint, however. He did not want to commit the sadness onto the canvas. Not that anyone would notice it if it did.
'What need have you for your shinings? Your false light?'
All of the Revellers gazed upon him and, with fury, directed their distributed shinings on to the figure. Such was the brilliance of their shinings, that the ground hardened to ice, sparkling as it did so.
But it did not matter, for the figure was the Sun.
Throne777