somebody shine a light
I'm frozen by the fear in me

It's not like he's got any clue what's going on. There's just the storm, a sense of pressure coming from within—of something painful and alive sitting in his chest, hammering at his ribs with tiny fists. Something that wanted out, but it was stuck. Trapped, by flesh and bones, something it wasn't made of itself. Emotions were as intangible as starlight.

He was just glad to see her. In all the darkness and pain, in the chaos of his uncertain existence, he was happy to see her, a familiar face, someone who wasn't bound to him by blood or duty, but rather.. through some unexplainable twist of fate, and the actions spawned from it. And perhaps he didn't matter—as much, or at all—to her. Perhaps she barely remembered a dorkish, white, playful stranger on a beach, or someone who fled side by side with her, and kept a watchful eye, and cursed to the skies when she disappeared out of his range in her crackling way.. but he found that it didn't matter. Of course, if she straight-up told him she had no recollection of him, it might, but as it was.. the feeling of joy was his, as tentative as a ray of pale sunlight on a cold, glorious winter day.

That feeling was his and he had every damn right to feel it.

“The hell I am!” the little zapping beast managed to get out in response to his greeting—which, he guessed, was better than staring at him in a sort of wtf-you're-totally-mad way. And, to his own surprise, he didn't come undone in a fit of laughter—just raised one 'brow and regarded her with level, tear-stained eyes. "Of course not," he hummed in agreement, but what his face said, what his eyes and that small, curving smile said, was and you just proved it by yelling a little more.

But there was no malice in the gestures. Only the only kind of warmth the snows know: thin and sparse, the glitter of light refracted through snow crystals. He said no more. Just.. waited. For her to say something. For the darkness to come back and devour him. For this blessed moment of peace to shatter and fall apart, like everything else.

Maybe he waited for the change that never came, because instead of changing, he just waited.

“Teeny,” but I can't take Tiny and bounce, because Tiny wasn't there, and Mauja still didn't know what you did when you "bounced". But it was, despite its ending and the rather dubious character of the black draft, a fond memory—a memory of lightness, and that bittersweet nostalgia was the first painful stab, the first reminder that he had overstepped himself when he'd swam back into the light. The good memories held a sharp contrast, and it stung, and he retreated, step by step forced back into his cage. He blinked. Why was he always crying these days? Where did the tears come from? He was just so damn tired, it seemed that crying was about the only thing he could do, even when he had no reason. The bitter wind dried them relentlessly, ice flaking off his cheeks.

"I.. uh," and his voice broke off when his mind found no answer. What was he doing? Aside from crying, because that hardly seemed a legit activity. He was.. standing around. Feeling sorry for himself—though that expression seemed too light, too pitiful, when it more like felt like he was trying to cling to a vertical wall to avoid falling into a black void. Trying to shake off my past. Too pretentious. Trying to find Ophelia. Too much of a painful truth, admitting something. “Who—who died?” Oh. And what do you say to that? I did. It sounded kind of funny, because he was alive enough, standing there, talking to her (well, right now he was being kind of silent). So he just looked at her, heart beating faintly beneath the layer of shadow.

Who was she, this spitfire kid? Did she care, like the softness of her voice, and the cast of her eyes, implied? His thoughts stalled for a moment, trapped by the electric blue. It felt like she did..

.. and if she did.. she was the first in a long, long time who didn't just see his haggard look and spit nonsense at him about being weak, burnt-out, less than he had been. He swallowed. He didn't know if it was truth, if the quiet insistence of her questions were morbid curiosity or if there was something beneath it that actually cared.. and in a way, he didn't want to know. It could hurt a lot. But at the same time.. he didn't want comfort from a false thought. He swallowed.

"The King I used to be, is dead," he finally said, his quiet voice a little rougher than usual, mirrored by the red riming his eyes. He was tired, and saying it aloud—realizing that he could never again be who he had been—didn't offer the catharsis he'd hoped for. It made him wonder if he would ever again feel light, unburdened, happy and meaningful.. for any prolonged period of time. More than just snatches of it.

He blinked furiously, but for once, refused to turn his weeping eyes away. She already knew he wept; what did it matter if she had to meet his gaze through its blurred curtain?

"I'm falling apart," he admitted in a small whisper.

She couldn't save him. He didn't expect her to.

But she wouldn't die from knowing the truth of it, either.

somebody make me feel alive
and shatter me