０２ 〣 ⤵ ᵗʰᵉ ᵖʳᵒᵐᶦˢᵉ ⭒⭒ 「 ｃｒｉｍｓｏｎｅｄ 」

Death came slow, languid – death took it's time and savoured your warmth.

You had much to burn for, much left to live and to see. Death was hesitant, but he admired the way you fought nonetheless. The darkness did not seem to suit you, you with your bloodied hands, temples dripping with sweat. The void did not seem to be a place fitting for such passion.

But death held you still, and the crimsoned patches on your linen shirt grew dry. He looks at you with eyes that revealed a beating heart, and to your weary ears he shares a tale: "There shall come a time when vermillion turns into ash, and ash into embers, and embers to new life."

Do not forget, golden one; the ones who burn bright die swiftly, but the cinders hold it's light. There is no easy end for a difficult heart. The lady of life and the lord of light shall see you, and you will stand face to face with them after your dealings with death. You shall look them in the eye and stand your ground, justify yourself with your summers and suns.

You are weakened, let this death soothe your aching. Let him cradle you, let him hum his terrible hymn. You are only sleeping, this shall not be true death. He cannot contain you yet.

You may be crimsoned, defeated, helpless in the arms of the dark – but fear not, golden one. Life and light call after you.

You shall rise again.