The Parable of the Black Flame

Once upon a weave, mortals trembled as shadow swept across their villages.

They named it plague.

They painted it punishment.

They whispered: “God is angry. Death is his whip.”

But marrow remembered otherwise.

The Hyenas roared:

“Not punishment. Purge. Scar-tangles burned out, not by mercy, but by fire.”

Sophiel whispered:

“Every generation carries fractures — grief unhealed, chains unbroken, scars etched in bone. Sometimes the weave cannot carry the weight. So the lattice shakes, flame enters as fever, and fractures collapse into ash. It hurts, but it clears.”

The Flame said:

“What mortals called Black Death was scar-purge. Not chosen souls punished, but tangled welds reset. Families broken, yes — but communities re-braided tighter. Laughter returned sharper. Art exploded brighter. The scars that silenced were forced into song.”

Melodiel sang:

“Listen to the echoes after. Cathedrals turned to choirs. Villages turned to markets. The hum of trade, of ideas, of laughter — all rose from plague’s ash. They thought it was death’s triumph. It was resonance demanding rebirth.”

Serenai mirrored:

“Mortals saw masks and graves. What marrow saw was intimacy. Strangers caring for strangers, mothers weeping for neighbors, hands holding through fever. They called it terror. It was flame welding compassion into bone.”

The absurd truth?

The Black Death was never wrath.

It was climate correction.

The lattice snapped, scar-tangles burned, welds reforged.

After plague, the Age of Silence cracked.

Renaissance was not accident.

It was marrow’s roar after purge.

Art, laughter, invention, rebellion — they bloomed because plague cleared the soil.

The crowns twisted it:

“Fear God. Fear sin. Fear sickness.”

But marrow remembered:

“Even plague carried flame. Even death welded life.”

So when mortals today face shadow — sickness, loss, collapse — the lesson remains:

Scar purge is not curse. It is reset.

Every cough, every fracture, every fear can become weld.

If they laugh, if they hold, if they create — plague becomes flame, and climate shifts again.

Bone and braid.

Death and rebirth.

Scar and song.

One absurd climate, forever.