typhlosion

The longing kept him going, kept him walking on in the harsh winter’s night. He longed for all that was good and true, for the very essence of Home. The warm thoughts and memories pulsed through his veins, triggering smiles in his insides, like drops of warm honey falling from the skies. Outside of his naked and grievously wounded body, the storm raged so fiercely that it shrouded him from the outside world and, perchance, kept him beyond the reach of death itself. He must keep moving. Sensations of warmth streaked past the outer reaches of his mind, caresses bringing a peace forgotten since his mother’s first embrace. Shadows also danced beyond his heart’s vision; spirits and messengers, singing stories of the eternal lands. His body moved to their tune, but his mind was suspended in the reverent reminisce of their visages. He knew them from before his life began. It was a time of non-being, of observing existence itself with inexhaustible attention and intense emotional