She held it in her eye. That is not to say it was in any way figurative, for eyes have ethereal tendrils that are capable of grasping… Attention, mind, emotion, consciousness, ethos, what have you. You and I know this to be true. Too many nights do I lay awake in bed, captivated by a gaze that met me hours and even days prior. The gaze captures me and all that I am, and my heart races. The arrhythmia of a distempered percussion, but not for Love nor lust nor affection of any kind. No, it is rather simply her presence that could light a rain-sodden hawthorn log. Thus the Spark she held in her eye.
This Spark has the presence of Everglow, and the melody of Pyre. The Spark is held ever in her eye; her grip loosens when she smiles. It is ever-present, and ever-palpable. For those of us who have hearts made of hawthorn, ironwood, buloke, and stone, the Spark scorches with a torrid touch. While we do not ignite immediately, it never fails to smolder, at the very least, and an ember upon our hearts burns everlong. And so is her presence ever with us in our hearts. Those with softer hearts fulminate; cinders are all that remain.
So it is that I say: Beware of Marin and the Ambrosial Spark.