| Burn [London, December 29, 1940] (narrative) |
[31 Aug 2009|03:48pm] |
The hours between dusk and dawn had always been mysterious to humans. It could be a time of intimacy and romance as people drew together, unable or unwilling to leave the small circles of light and companionship they created. Because it was also a time of fear and uncertainty; mortal creatures relied far too heavily upon their eyes, too little on their other senses, and the darkness robbed them of the sight that they felt gave them an advantage. Which was, in Nyx’s opinion, rather narrow minded. Bad things happened just as easily in daylight as they did in the depths of the night.
But it was a psychological thing, a primal discomfort that came with not knowing: not knowing what was coming, not knowing what threatened, not knowing what lurked in the shadows, unseen and terrifying. The imagination, though, could conjure up far worse things than truly existed, and it was often a human being’s own mind that was their downfall. Not some unnamed danger in the darkness. So they created a sanctuary, small beacons of brightness in the night, to keep the black at bay and trick themselves into thinking that as long as they stayed where it was bright, they would be fine.
( They had done so since they first received the gift of fire. )
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