The ember

There is no horizon for the glade. No shore, no sky. Just the abyss, the mist and the trees.
The hills are veiled by the blue mist, crying the river of tears for the sins they have to bear, like pregnant mother bears the child. Even when it hurts so.
The woods are whispering silently among themselves, almost like afraid to disturb the peace of the prisoners. The heights of the trees pity them, yet cage them inside more firm, more sure than the bars of iron. For it is their punishment, and the woods understand it.

They are all nothing but shadows, their names hidden to the dust of the history. Tormented names, forgotten even by the gods that chained them there. Maybe even the gods are forgotten now, for the world has changed like the tides that turn in their time. A child no more.

Perhaps the Dark one still remembers, he has been there with them for the long time, after all.
The Dark one, the bound one. The prison was created for him in the first place.

His face is colour of shadows, dead to all feeling, for he has been lonely for a long time. Prisoned between the wake and the sleep.
Too powerfull, too bold to stay guiet even in his eternal prison like the others do, he sings silently as his long fingers, like spider legs, nails painted carmine twist the loose ends of the forgotten dreams to his pleasure; weaving them allthough not ruling over them.
Once he did rule those dreams.
But that power is bound for him now.

His eyes  burning with endless rage and yearning of freedom; eyes of obsidian and amber, as his hair lays on his dark shoulders like smoke and mist and shadows.
Proud like dying sun he is, even in his imprisoned state, wisp of fire and gold and carmine.
Burning silently, like an ember.