There is the one whose eyes were filled with tears, if not with
devastating sorrow, then with the splendour of joy.  Little time did
he spend drifting between the realms.  For this, he was reviled
... and feared.  Thos typical, who attached themselves to the middling
ground, chose not to understand him, who entered each moment on a
trail of tears or weilding the high hand of prophecy, and made him a
pariah.  For so simple would it be, thought they, for him to forsake
both the sky and the darkened depths, and be simply as they.  But no
more could he leave these than one might severe from their thoughts.
Thus there grew a chasm between this one and the conscience of those
who amongst he walked.

For the isolation he endured, he uttered fey pronouncement on the
shattered fools.  His words, to the horror of all who marked them, came
to be.  Consuming some space of time, it was even wondered if he would
become the new dark lord.  He feared his own prophecy, for he felt
that we would never be content whilst he dwelt in the stars that the
others so dreamed of chasing.  His thoughts changed in cycle, from red
to blue, to fire, to wind, and further still did he become untethered
to the world.

Such did he remain.  Until there came the day when by an act so
insignificant that it is now forgotten, he found himself in a place of
nothingness.  There was no sorrow.  Nor was there joy.  But only empty
limitless expanse stretching to horizons distant beyond the limits of
vision.  He wished to fear, but he felt nothing.  In this emptiness,
he was ofered a choice.

Then he fell, passing through darkness and time.  When his
conciousness returned, he was no longer what he was, but found himself
with one who understood.  Never again would he speak of the ethereal,
save to her, and though all magick faded from the world, the two stood
alone in memory of that spark which they nurtured in secret while they
still passed days.