It had been many, long years since Britta Jarnskop had stood atop the crest of Sellanja Rise. In the distance flecks of light began to spark over a still darkened horizon – the comforting security of night once more meekly surrendering its battle to the advancing dawn.
As a child she had often climbed the Rise with her father – together they would sit amongst the glistening snowdrops awaiting the new day, dreaming of the joys it would surely bring. That joy had soon turned to a nightmare: their lakeside village in the Gerstag valley ransacked – only little Britta survived, although at times she wondered if she truly had. Within that vibrant shell of seeming eternal youth now spun the memories of a lifetime, centuries in the making.
Britta was tired. She no longer wished to make others suffer her fate to extend an already overstretched, unloved existence. They had tried to stop her, but within her eyes they knew: it was her moment – a moment that they too would face in time.
As the first flashes of light collected and joined the battle was over – a new day was born. Britta Jarnskop closed her eyes and accepted the flames which engulfed her body; accepted her end.
These words form my entry into this week’s Sunday Photo Fiction challenge.