The prophet stirred from his afternoon nap, tickled awake by the bright sun illuminating the blue sky. The hum of the insects swelled, and a sugar-sweet smell lingered in the air. When the desire to rise filled him, his body rose from the ground, and he set out. It would take some time to get used to this new form.
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He had been wandering for some days now since the world had ended. He wasn't sure where he was, but he knew the others would be waiting for him. The magic of the angels was all around him, bending and shaping the outer realms. This was not the elysia he knew, but that world was gone.
The journey was pleasant and leisurely, since the prophet had no end goal in mind. He enjoyed the fruits from the trees, the mild warmth filling the air, the beauty of the angels’ words filling the sky. While crossing through a field of flowers, one of the words was waiting for him, rearranging itself in its infinite folds.
“Hello,” the prophet said. “I seem to be a bit lost, can you tell me where my friends are?”
The words continued to move and swell, and the prophet saw a million distant reflections; dreams, prophecies, and memories filled the field, permeating the prophet’s mind. He breathed contently, and realized he was already home.