Redemption, an answer to Fractured

In the dark the room drifted—stony walls half fallen in, rusted iron locks and bars, dust and dirt settled in widdershin patterns on the cold floor. The gray thing, hulking now, sat huddled next to the sharp and twisted mosaic it had to make. In its scarred and bruised hands, it held two small lights, born from the betrayal. They were the only good to come from it. The figure held them close, knowing if it could keep them safe until they shown on their own, until they went out to light void with their brilliance, that would be enough. Still, it clung to solitude, shivering in the dark, holding the lights until it wasn’t needed anymore.

Time moved ever at its steady monotonous pace, marching, stepping, changing, haunting. The frail lights grew as the shape withered, different shades with sparks of the colors left in the twisted mosaic behind it, once vibrant, now dull. As one pain faded another filled the void, one that ached and gnawed but would not move the thing huddled in the corner. This is how it existed in the void as time sped past, everything changing and yet staying the same, until something happened, something it could not and would not accept.

The void shuttered and shook through one of the steps time took, it was a small thing, but one throughout, happening everywhere and all at once. For the first time, in a long time, the thing moved. Creaking and groaning, popping and snapping, it stood. Far off in the distance it could see the hints of dawn dancing on the horizon.

“No” it said, voice sounding of dried husks and reed.

It had believed the hope that dawn would bring once before, it could not do it again, it had learned. As the thing turned away to hold the small lights and twisted mosaic from its warmth, something moved in the periphery. It danced along the growing light, happy and merry. The things eyes narrowed trying to make out if it was what it thought it was. Surely it wasn’t. It almost looked like a cartoon maniac in a red and black suit riding a white horse, no, a unicorn? Grumbling about insane men in tights, it turned away, but not before glancing back once more.

Days turned to weeks, and still the light grew on the horizon. The thing wouldn’t allow this light in like it had before. It picked up leftover shards and cut itself, mixing its blood with the dirt and dust to make mortar. It stacked fallen stones, bent and rusted iron, and its own flesh—all in an effort to deny the light, and its witty and playful and sultry tone dancing in the dark.

As more time passed the thing couldn’t help but notice the light and its many aspects and nuances, trying to not think of a thing is an effort of futility. It was different from the light that had come before, yet familiar to the thing. It couldn’t quite grasp where that warm familiarity came from—thus unbeknownst to the thing, deep down, something cracked and started to thaw.

Panic gripped the thing as it paced the lightening room, holding tight the small lights it must protect and the mosaic, that twisted and broken thing. Try as it might, the light grew, filling the void with warmth and hope. It slammed its head against the wall in frustration, only knocking more stones from the wall and letting more light in. Suddenly, the thing heard sharp cracks and shrieks—turning it saw the mosaic twist and reach for the light that shown through the serendipitous windows. The thing rushed to it, not caring about the cuts from grabbing the mosaic, the thing tried to pull it back from the light, not again, it could not let that happen again—then, as the thing pulled, a beam touched the glass of the mosaic.

There was an explosion of light, blinding the room, caressing and soothing, it shown. It was then the thing knew why the light was so familiar, so many of its colors and hues were mirrors of the brilliance the mosaic once shown with so long ago. Even where the tones didn’t match, they boldened each other, creating new and ephemeral tones, instead of clashing as the other had. Shaking its head, the thing couldn’t believe it, it wouldn’t believe it. It stood and rushed to the mosaic, ripping and breaking off all of the jagged pointed ends. The thing threw them at the Beautiful shape that had formed in the light outside the room. They laughed, such a sweet and soothing sound, blocking each shard thrown by the thing with one of their own. Blood and glass and laughter filled the room. As this went on, slowly the mosaic and the thing melded together, until they were a gestalt form of smooth flowing glass and shining metal lines and hot pumping blood—and until laughter of its own joined the twisted dance, the both of them bending, pushing, pulling the other. Their light mingled and shown all the brighter than either ever had on their own, the two frail lights the thing had protected dancing among them. The room, no longer what it was, grew to dizzying heights—with spires and parapets and towers and stained-glass windows and gargoyles. All of it a manifestation of the joy and happiness the two found with the other. Together, they flew with one another through the void, filling it with the light of their own, the two smaller lights feeding off the brilliance that shown instead of the darkness they had known before.