Chapter Text
The world is cold.
How strange… he hadn’t believed cold existed anymore. At the very least, not like this.
This cold isn’t the clammy, rigid kind that accompanies a catwalk. It isn’t electric, or hollow, or slowly heating up beneath him. No… This is softer, blurred at the edges. It is wet and clinging, yet somehow yielding to his form in an almost comforting embrace. He hasn’t felt cold like this since....
Since....
It seems memories refuse to accompany this brief lull of peace, replaced by the silent illusion of touch.
He clings to it, carefully assessing the odd coldness of… this.
It has broken now, changing from an all consuming chill into something more solid. It even fades into a faint warmth, illuminating what he was quickly realizing is his face !
How strange… He didn’t think he had one of those anymore.
He had one once, he believes. Though, through the mind numbing haze that persists, it feels as though it were a million years ago. Perhaps it is.
Had… Had he lost it? He thinks he must’ve come to that conclusion once, in the damned place he’s escaped from-
The offhanded thought slides into a half memory, dreamlike and fuzzy against the static consuming him.
Yes. He’d been somewhere else. He is sure of it now. Now, where that else was… that is abit more of a slippery slope to climb.
Vaguely, he can picture a lone catwalk standing against an abyss. White water- no, magic -lapping in waves against its edges and onto his shoes. It is a violent, humming thing, far cried from this peaceful limbo.
The thought of returning to it makes him want to scream.
He does not. Can not. The simple task of breathing is foreign to his broken form.
Somewhere in the dark, the man attempts to squirm. It is a difficult action to accomplish in the haze, but it allows a distraction from such thoughts.
They stubbornly persist. He opts instead to let this strange (beautiful) delusion of temperature roll over his bones.
That forever changing ratio of hot and cold has shifted, consumed by something else. The sharp buzzing static is giving way to something new. Something familiar.
An ache is beginning to form distantly, nipping at something that could possibly be his… his hands!
He focuses on them, giving what must be fingers an experimental wiggle. The numbness stubbornly clings, slowing his movements into what he can only imagine to be a sluggish display.
Still, he keeps at it until the static ebbs into the sharp pinpricks of pain. They stab at him, digging deeper and deeper as more of his arm is revealed, until he can feel it in his marrow itself.
The man isn’t entirely sure if he winces, vaguely feeling the features of his long forgotten face scrunch slightly.
Out of all the foreign ghosts of sensations, why does it have to be pain?
He should be thankful for anything at all, aside from the waves of static that have battered him so relentlessly. But hasn’t he had his fair share of pain? Hasn’t he torn himself to pieces enough times in life-
Where did that come from?
He tries to tug at the memory, to yank it back to his slowly strengthening consciousness. But, just like the others before, it slithers away into the darkness around him, slick with its secrets.
The man feels himself sigh, well, as close as one can get to a sigh after countless years without breath. He supposes any sensation is better than none, even if it is as vexing as pain.
How long has it been since he’s felt… anything?
Hard as he tries, he can not reach far enough back to answer. It does not matter, for the pain has seeped out of his arms and into what has to be his ribs. Something else is there too, just below the sternum-
It hums in an odd way, resembling the vibrations of electricity or a broken music box. Sharp. Garbled. Confused. The underlying chords of broken glass and crinkled paper. Familiar yet foreign-
His soul.
He has a soul. Sitting there. Getting stronger and louder in his very chest.
He hasn’t had a soul since…. since….
The realization that he is running himself in circles seizes him, accompanied by a sharp stab of annoyance. He hasn’t had a lot of things in a very long time, and now is not the time to ponder about it.
He has a body to examine.
He tries to raise one of his hands to brush against the newly discovered ribs, but it refuses; sitting there in that odd patch of hot-cold stinging his fingertips. Another attempt is made before he decides the action is in vain, rather focusing on where the pain has written itself across his bones.
All and all, he can pick out a distinct rib cage, that soul, two arms, something he is sure is his head and neck, and… and the faintest glimmers of what may be his legs. They are all startlingly numb, all aside from the growing agony in his lower spine-
A phantom spark of fire forces his whole body into a wince.
There is a building. A behemoth. The magic is consuming him, tearing him to pieces. He can smell the dust and hear the groan of the metal; the inferno licking his spine and the shrapnel stinging his face-
The man stands on a catwalk, clutching the railing so hard it hurts.
The man stands on a catwalk, clutching the railing so hard it hurts.
The man stands-
It is an old instinct that takes hold of him, all but forgotten in the dark. His ribs burn , throat tightened and soul all but frantic-
The air is crisp against unused ribs. They ache . The smell of dying leaves and fresh snow- the blinding light surrounding his feeble body, harsh against pried open sockets- The taste of iron and electricity growing bitter in his mouth-
It’s too much. Too much .
He forces his eyes closed and tries to escape to that inky place, desperate for its solitude. He needs it to hold him, to lull him, to force him into that ungodly, numbing peace he’s grown addicted to. He cannot tell if it is a Haven or a Hell-
The burn has infected the darkness, leaving large, colorful hues dancing against his vision. All accented by the crisp smell of Autumn air forcing its way into his ribs as they rise and fall.
He watches the dots, feeling his face scrunch and body twitch. The tranquility has been broken. The dark place is gone.
He is restless.
Carefully, slowly , the man allows his sockets to drift open. He has to force them into a squint against the horribly bright, blurry world around him. The final strands of static playing in the back of his mind begin to fade as the picture clears itself-
The breath leaves his throat.
What lies around him is unlike anything he’s ever seen. A brilliant expanse of blue stretches above him, filled to the brim with massive, cream coloured clouds. It is only interrupted by the twisting branches of the trees overhead. The leaves have decayed into brilliant reds, oranges, and yellows; each shining through a thin layer of ice.
He is only able to tear his gaze from them to follow thick trunks into the soil. It seems he is on a hill, considering the sloping ground. Or perhaps the snow has just piled in such a manner. There is a thin sheet of it, stained blue under the trees and shining prisms when it hits the sun.
He’d think he’s fallen into a painting had the clouds not been churning.
His gaze returns to them and warmth begins to trickle down his temples. He barely recognizes them as tears; hot and fat and drenching his skull now. There is a sob building in his throat and for once he dare not try to stop it.
The tremor in his ribs sends agony through his body. There is no static nor inky nothingness to numb it, leaving his entire body trembling and burning with it.
It is nearly too much to handle-
But he dare not close his eyes. The colours are vivid and blinding. There is the cry of birds and insects surrounding him. He is in tears and in pain and it is wonderful .
The sob turns into a laugh. Dry. Foriegn. His voice is rough and unused, yet it tumbles into that glorious sky as though it should be a part of it. It should be a part of it.
It hasn’t for a very long time.
He wheezes. His vision is swimming now and he can’t feel his legs. The cold suddenly bites harder than the sun, only beaten by the pain in his lower spine.
The darkness is creeping in again. He should be scared, or desperate, or trying to claw his way back into consciousness. He should be fighting for a life that he does not have.
But he doesn’t. He lets it slowly force his eyes shut and aching ribs into a steady rhythm.
This is a different kind of abyss. He can feel it in that shattered soul of his. This kind doesn’t cling and tear, rather it holds and buries; allowing him to sink and go numb.
This time when he fades away, the sun will still burn above him; casting the world in its heavenly light.