Sky-fire (open)

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Lightning was a fascinating thing.

Nothing more than a simple streak of white light shattering the sky, it held such power. It seemed strange that something so insubstantial could be that formidable. You could not touch light, nor could you smell it; light made no sound and had no taste. You could see it, yes, and at the same time, no. You could tell the difference between dark and light, but it was impossible to go down a line of objects: oh, yes, that one is a tree, and that is a cloud, and this here is light. It wasn’t an object so much as… as… well, what exactly was it then?

Well, lightning was bright. It was able to induce fear and uncertainty in others. It was dangerous, that was for sure—standing in front of the great Burnt Sycamore was perfect testimony to that fact. A lightning strike had destroyed the enormous tree, blackening it and giving it its name. Brokenstar wasn’t sure that the tree was, in fact, exactly dead, but it definitely couldn’t possibly still be classified as ‘alive’. Although, perhaps it could, there really was no way of knowing. Had lightning killed the tree, or was the tree still struggling? It didn’t look like it was absolutely and conclusively dead. The tree was not rotting or anything that signified dead-ness—however, it just didn’t feel fully alive, either.

The great brown tabby tom sat at the base of the Burnt Sycamore, staring up into its not-quite-dead-but-not-quite-alive branches. He was intrigued—if only he could figure out a way to harness a lightning strike, then perhaps he would be able to show the rest of the forest what greatness looked like, and explain why only ShadowClan had become great. It was a difficult thing to explain to the more simple-minded members of the forest, because it angered the weaklings who wished to think themselves important. They were such nuisances when their little self-satisfied egos were deflated.

So, lightning could kill. It could split the air—a physical thing, split by a jagged talon of light, which had no substance. Looking at the Burnt Sycamore, the idea that lightning was made of fire trotted across Brokenstar’s mind. Fire from the sky. Sky-fire. But, didn’t fire have substance? It was destructive, certainly, able to burn those who touched it—but the Burnt Sycamore said that lightning could do that, too. So, if lightning was fire… what force shaped it into perfect little zigzags?

word count // 438
ooc comments // none
tags // open