Fires that Burn

The campfire dimmed. It's smoke rising lazily into Feralas' cool, clear evening sky. It's flames flickered, struggling to maintain it's slowly smoldering life. The only noises that could be heard were the crackling of the dying fire. It's wood and paper giving it's life, so that another can slowly die.

Buthaleirus thought the scene so funny he chuckled, while biting back his nightly tears. Evening after evening he came to this spot, their spot and he cried. At first, the tears were of sadness. He mourned her silence. Her absence. Then, as the weeks passed, the tears were of a sort of joy, a peace. The fondness of the memories outweighed his loneliness and feeling of loss.

Now, the tears that fell from eyes that burned with fury. Eyes that once found joy now seek pain. She had left him, no note, no goodbye, just empty promises of a return. His heart once full of love, now felt empty, yearning to be filled.

Fire seemed to burn through his body as his blood turned cold. "Alabahstah!", he cried forth. His lungs nearly exploding with the force of his rage. He looked to the Stars, and they shown bright and clear. Looking down, eyes burning, he focused through the tears and pain. He raised the weapon he had come to call own high over his head and drove it down. Over and over again, he hammer slammed into a dirk which buried itself into a putrid, but perfectly kept, worg heart, destroying both the flimsy knife and the long-still heart.

Butha giggled and grinned as he looked slightly to his left. The campfire had burned out.