The Well of Mimir

The red-orange haze of the far horizon as it curved away north and south bled into the pink-and-white of the sky, the sun boiling red and angry hot in the sky above like a drop of shimmering crimson blood on the flesh of the air.

And near the edges of the sky, separated from each other by celestial arcs, hung three small objects: two were pale white and washed out in the brightness of the daytime sky, lumpy and irregular, their shadows the color of the sky. The third was little more than a metallic glimmer in the heavens, though its brightness would grow in intensity as dusk approached. These were the three moons.

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He was a spark of consciousness in the machine, a glimmering pinpoint of brilliant light wrapped in tubes of dark, cold emptiness and lifeless metal. But he was an important spark. He was the heart of the mechanical beast drifting through the black universe.

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