Aska Pyre // D5

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A cold stream slips through the channels of her toes. The soft song of crickets ripples through the reeds of the pond's edge. She is alone, as always, a silent silhouette poised perfectly beneath the brilliant moon. Her fingers dance through the fronds of small ferns setting a fire in the center of her palms. Its embers of energy and its tender touch are so different to the flames of her own heart. Life's fire is vibrant and vivacious, an unexpected aurora of unique experience. Her fire, the child of Death, is a fire of constant control and raining ash.

Aska.

Ash.

She is named after the remnants of life.

She is the aftermath of existence and the final face of fate.

Away from the water's edge, she lives in a world of brick and fire. A small home attached to a complex no parent wants to explain to their child as they pass. She exists in the realm where few peoples' eyes dare to turn towards. A place of terror to the minds of the many, her home a permanent reminder of mortal frailty. For she is the daughter of a crematorium and a servant to its flames. Death lies in the ashes she is named after, and thus she shares a section of society with the shadows.

There, but rather forgotten.

Yet a pride persists in the process of life her family shares. A special sense of ceremonial importance for bidding farewell to the newly departed. To be given the greatest gift of all, to hold a hand one last time before bidding its physical form an eternal goodbye, is something to never shy away from. The lesson of her parents from the first moment she saw the flickering flames of their occupation. A lesson she clings to with every ounce of her existence. She does not hide from the deeds of her hands, but welcomes Death's fire and bends it into something beautiful.

Despite a preference for, and a reality of, seclusion, Aska is content. She finds expression not through the sounds of voice, but though the art of metal. From a young age, she has been fascinated by the features of the urns her Mother makes. Following in the footsteps of both parents, on days she is not surrounded by smoke she is designing intricate urns of all assortments and styles. All of her emotions can find exposure in the details of her designs. Freedom of expression she doesn't need people to pretend to listen to. They can simply see it.

However, contentment goes beyond the bounds of one portion of the complex. In the halls of home, Aska is at peace among the treacherous clutter of old family heirlooms. For seventeen years she has explored every piece of Pyre past, and still not even an ounce of it bores her. History has always had her eyes, for it is something that transcends mortality. Fire may burn away the people of a time period, but its history forever lives on. It's part of the reason Aska believes she stays lost from the company of others. She is too busy venturing down the lanes of history.

Luckily, her family understands her and they are the ones to give her any interaction she truly needs. The sounds of her siblings soothes Aska where it would rile other sisters. It may seem odd that such a family whose noses have grown use to the smell of burning flesh are so close. But in actuality, Aska comprehends it clearly. The world outside their walls of brick and soot only see them as aids to the reapers of Death. But they all know the truth, they share the beauty of the work they do and accept the burden that Aska knows no other family wants to bear. They can be judged by the frightened masses, but together they are strong for the job they welcome as a privilege.

The slow days and long nights of recent times has not been easy though. Aska has watched as her Father withers further from his condition. Now he rarely leaves home to cross the courtyard. Yet she is aware of the trouble his spasms cause. Just as she is aware of the smile her Mother tries to shine as she struggles to do the work of two parents instead of one. Aska wants to believe that her Father will recover. She wants to see his skin's color return and the light of his warm brown eyes burn brightly again, but she knows where his road will one day end.

She knows the fire that will consume him and urn he will fill.

And somehow, she has to find the beauty even in that. 

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