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08-13-2015, 12:31 PM
but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams
It's like there is something missing—
—the eyes are open but the signal's lost—
—like there's something missing, stripped away; if you flay the skin off the flesh and rip the flesh from the bone, you're left with just that: bones.
If you strip a mind, a soul, a heart, of feeling and hope and joy, what are you left with but cold logic, rationality? Something sterile, razor sharp. And he stood there in a snowfall so white and so pure it could've been salt or sugar, each color blending in seamlessly and leaving the world lifeless. It fell on his nose, his ears, his neck, his back; it shrouded him in as much white as he already wore, slowly, slowly trying to claim the spots of black.
Slowly, slowly trying to erase Mauja—cast him into a pit as bleached white as his bones.
There were things he cared for, still. There were things in his heart that was worth dreaming about, hoping for, paying heed to.
But it was buried beneath an avalanche of bloody snow and bitterness.
His trust in the light had been a fragile thing—and it made him cringe, thinking of himself like a delicate blossom hesitantly opening its petals to spring sunlight, and basking in it for a mere moment until the storms with their hail returned.
Mauja, a flower—bah.
But it was how he felt as he haunted his own kingdom, a sterile ghost in a sterile world. He healed his wounds with ice. He hid his broken trust behind ice.
And so it went until he was all ice.
Elsa stood in the snowfall, the flakes dancing around her. She was as muted out in the world as he was, a shadow forgotten in the embrace of white. His head tilted. She seemed oddly loyal.
But to what?
To the crown others bore, or to the mission within her soul?
"Elsa," he says, quietly, striding through the snow. "How are you?"
And he paused beside her, something lost and forgotten briefly remembered in the snow: incorporeal, transient, soon to be buried again.
[ @Elsa ]
—the eyes are open but the signal's lost—
—like there's something missing, stripped away; if you flay the skin off the flesh and rip the flesh from the bone, you're left with just that: bones.
If you strip a mind, a soul, a heart, of feeling and hope and joy, what are you left with but cold logic, rationality? Something sterile, razor sharp. And he stood there in a snowfall so white and so pure it could've been salt or sugar, each color blending in seamlessly and leaving the world lifeless. It fell on his nose, his ears, his neck, his back; it shrouded him in as much white as he already wore, slowly, slowly trying to claim the spots of black.
Slowly, slowly trying to erase Mauja—cast him into a pit as bleached white as his bones.
There were things he cared for, still. There were things in his heart that was worth dreaming about, hoping for, paying heed to.
But it was buried beneath an avalanche of bloody snow and bitterness.
His trust in the light had been a fragile thing—and it made him cringe, thinking of himself like a delicate blossom hesitantly opening its petals to spring sunlight, and basking in it for a mere moment until the storms with their hail returned.
Mauja, a flower—bah.
But it was how he felt as he haunted his own kingdom, a sterile ghost in a sterile world. He healed his wounds with ice. He hid his broken trust behind ice.
And so it went until he was all ice.
Elsa stood in the snowfall, the flakes dancing around her. She was as muted out in the world as he was, a shadow forgotten in the embrace of white. His head tilted. She seemed oddly loyal.
But to what?
To the crown others bore, or to the mission within her soul?
"Elsa," he says, quietly, striding through the snow. "How are you?"
And he paused beside her, something lost and forgotten briefly remembered in the snow: incorporeal, transient, soon to be buried again.
[ @Elsa ]
man, I ain't changed, but I know I ain't the same
