Flowing Grips (CODA)

"What is the Darkness?" You open your eyes and gaze at your hands, seeking an answer to your question. Searing glow from a tyrant light above you annihilates all shadow from the plain of sand you stand upon in a world full of L I G H T. The last thing you perceive is a blazing outline of alabaster fingers gripping your wrist in a tight fist, before photokeratitis takes your sight. The roar of the wind fills your ears. Whatever has seized you is shaking you. You perceive shouting over the rush of air, but you can't make out the words. You lean closer to your hands, to whatever's clasping them, shaking them. The shouting grows eager. You can smell it now; whatever has seized you. Ancient. Rotting. Powerful. Its grip is strong—as strong as yours, the heat of the Light coursing through it. It can smell the Light on you, too. It knows you are just like it. It has lived forever. A gift from your shared parent. Forever is too long. You think you know what it's saying now. It begs for death. Your vision gradually returns… A harsh glare blooms from the heavens above. Your soul is weary. Your feet find purchase in shifting sands. Your cloak billows in the wind, yet something clings to it, weighing it down.