An Island in the Sky

The metal build shifted every minute. Every second. The hands on it never stop. Not once. Not when it has a job to do. Not as long as the Guardian moves. Stars shimmer and reflect off of it, hanging down and around the dome structure of it all. Stained glass windows reflected lights upon the town and the blazing lands beneath it.

Pink and white trees sway in the breeze. Giving off a soft soothing scent. One that overpowers the smell of rising smoke and ash.

Pink, purple, and blue crystals glow. Shining around the land with the magic that keeps their home afloat. Keeps their home hidden amongst the cold white clouds. Far away from the screams and fighting. Far away from the burning war.

Deep inside the metal building, marked by the current phase of the moon, was a large open marble floor. Marked by numbers.

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

10.

11.

12.

In between each is about 4 notches. Around that is a ring, more symbols of the moon. Moving around and around, depicting a full cycle in all its detail. Only the smell of metal and old paper filled the air. No fire, for they did not allow torches near the ancient stories of their land. Instead, the room was lit by the mere light of the full moon, bouncing around and reflecting off of everything until it was filled with an ethereal glow of pinks and purples, dancing lights sparkling like fireflies.

Only the howling wind was there to witness it.

Only the howling wind and the dancing Guardian.

One step. Two step. Three step. Four. Back to one. Two. Three. Four. Around and around, twirling without end. She guides the moon, along the sky and its phases. A marionette made of metal and stars. Dancing without end for she did not need a break. So long as the moon hung with its silver glow, she would dance.

Blind.

Blind to the death and the sorrow.

The lands engulfed by raging red flames mean nothing to her.

Not in the land in the sky.

Not among the pink and white trees.

Not in her home of metal.

Not on her dance floor of the moon.