Work Text:
He wept then, wept for all that he was and all that he was not. He wept for lakes buried by time, and for the pieces of himself that had been buried with it. He wept for the bluest of skies and perfect storms, wishing he could hold their beauty. He wept for mountains, eroded by rivers polluted of mistakes, and accidents, and pain, and for his own innocent eyes, now faded and worn, and he wished for all the world that he could hold his own past, change his fate, and burn his present. He wished he could burn himself too, and hoped that something else was born from the ashes, something pure, something perfect, something impossible.