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All was still in a wind-torn land of rock.

Whatever gales that had ravaged the cold world had died, the air as dead as the stone it had once sculpted.

A typical denizen of this land floated by; a spirit that was once a servant of the winds, now drifting aimlessly. Without its masters, who had perished along with the land, to guide it, all it was now was a silent witness to its home's grave.

It lifted its face, emaciated skin as dark and dry as the sky above it, to the lifeless heavens, a silent plea reverberating through its very soul:

I wish to see life again.

For with all the power its people possessed, it could not breathe life back into its world.

But maybe other worlds existed; worlds with life and beauty and wonder like its own once had...

... and it would give anything, all that it was, to know that somewhere, death eternal had not reigned just yet.

This empty wandering felt like a fate worse than death.

The spirit brought its eyes down to see the dessicated remains of its home.

It surrendered its sight to darkness; it would not miss its world.

When it chose to look outwards once more, the darkness had not receded. It was as if it had never opened its eyes at all. The spirit wondered if this complete, empty darkness was its final death.

Without warning, the darkness lunged, gathering the wisp's essence and crushing it together. Agony enveloped it, and the spirit yearned for any way to relieve the pain. After time had lost its meaning and life its feeling, the sudden assault on its nerves felt like a great torment as the pain continued on and on and on...

It then felt a searing heat, like the core of a star had ignited upon its skin. Unlike the pain of the shadows that afflicted its very being, this scorching wrapped the spirit, leaving it cold within and burning without. A wind howled and howled, giving voice to anguish, but unable to subdue the flames that threatened to consume it alive.

But... there was wind. The gale swirled around its blazing form... not extinguishing the fire, but shaping the wild beast, channeling the murderous pain to snake up and down its body, towards the wrists of arms the spirit had found it had formed. The fire branded it there, blazing so excruciatingly hot that even as it cooled, the spirit still felt the flames binding its cuffs, and heat bathing its back in uncomfortable warmth.

It opened its eyes to the feeling of grain underneath its hands.

Gleaming golden sand met its gaze, not the dry, cracked earth with which it was so acquainted.

It lifted its sight to vibrant blue skies and a blinding ball of light.

The spirit felt lost joy stir in its being, but the throbbing around its wrists returned its gaze to the price of fulfilling its wish.

Its forearms were singed beneath armlets of gold, steaming even in the desert heat.

The gold had no embellishments; it had no need for such bedazzling to be a reminder.

"Everything has a price,"

The spirit looked to the sky, relishing the caress of a warm zephyr that stirred the sand ever so slightly.

"... but some things are worth the cost."