David Taylor, 02 Sep '14

There is a spirit and she is Air. In the sky she dwells; alone as one, but together in every living thing that gasps to breathe and stay alive. From the tops of the mountains she swirls and plays, to the depths of the seas she digs and is. She is Air, breath of all, and there is nowhere she cannot go or may not be.

But just to be is not enough and Air weeps as she dwells alone. It was not always so, you see. And once, Air remembers, there were more spirits in life than there are stars in the sky. Air was happy. She frolicked and danced with those of fire, their passions so raw; she twirled with water nymphs, their grace so renowned; she stomped with those of the earth, who knew strength only in uncouth belligerence.

But then there was Man. Man who abused the blade of science and cared little for the green of the world and the balance of life. Man who came with claws of stone and hacked at the flesh of trees. Man that scorched the earth with Flames’ own blood and built high into the sky. And as Man came, the spirits died. Magic bled from the world as the race spread—a memory as fragile and mocked as the parody of dreams—and then there was only Air, crying alone and scared as her blood was used to bolster Man and fuel their war across the Face of All.

And now Air cannot end, no matter how much as she wants to. She despairs, watching her kin grieve for her from across the Echoes of Creation; the place where Mankind can never be. Too many depend on Air, you see. Too many suckle her life in each ragged breath. Too many burn her hallowed life for fuel.

The living of Earth unknowingly bind and shackle her. All Air can do is watch as Mankind grows from provenance, consuming and warping all that lies around them as they forever force themselves from Nature. All Air can do is dwell; alone as one, but together in every living thing that gasps to breathe and stay alive. All Air can do is ebb and be.