Work Text:
There is a place where all is quiet. A time of nothingness. One might say a time of peace. Others (that is to say, most) may say a quiet hell. Too little sound. Too little weather. Too little humanity. Too much time. Too much to see. Too much to reflect on.
Purgatory. There are thoughts of Purgatory being less than Heaven, or more pleasant than Hell. All there agree that there is likely no worse Hell than endless thought. Endless time. Endless nothing.
It is a direct reflection of the earthly plane, with its countries and cities and oceans and rivers and woods. One may think that this would be a peaceful afterlife. A joyous one, perhaps. Nothing to do than just to be. How deceitful a thought; how deceitful and appearance. In the opinion of many, there is no greater Hell, no greater punishment than being trapped in the inbetween. No crueler punishment than being trapped in the place many had wished to escape. Places where many had been cruelly ripped from. Seeing all they knew, but not entirely how they knew it. Perception was skewed. Lack of population causing glaring differences in how it should be, versus how it is.
There is a city, in this place. A city which grows in population every day. A city where people - children - can be seen on rooftops. Children that tend to sit and contemplate, or to run and jump and leap (soar) along, in an attempt to run from their own thoughts.
One of these children, a boy with dark hair and light eyes- typically covered by a mask- wearing bright colours of red and yellow and green, will often pretend, just for a moment, that everything is okay, that he is not dead. That he was not cruelly ripped from his world by a cruel man. That he was not hurt the way that he was. That he was not crushed and distorted and burned, almost beyond recognition. That he was more than a mere thought. More than a memory. More than a dream. That he was ever more than a hope to be more. To be a hero.
Some days, this boy appears almost pristine. Untouched. Unmarked. Unhurt. Everything the boy had wanted to be. A symbol of joy and of hope. Others, the boy appears burnt and bruised and bleeding and shredded clothing. He appears angry and bitter and distraught. Everything the boy was when the dream died.
Among the children, there is a girl. A girl with light hair and light eyes. Most often, she will be encased in a purple cloak, a hood over her head and mask covering her face. Some days, she is dressed in yellows and greens and reds, hair loose and a mask covering her eyes. She, much like the boy, will pretend. Pretend that she is anything more than the dead dream, ripped away too soon. She will pretend that she can fly, that she can escape her thoughts and her regrets. Escape the feeling that she is nothing more than a bitter thought considered by a dead girl walking.
She too, will, on some days, appear ripped and bleeding and scarred, angry and afraid. So very afraid. And afraid more to show it. She will appear weak, and downtrodden, broken and bitter. Everything she had been afraid to be in life. She will sometimes appear bleeding and defiant, bruised but brave, bent but unbroken, confident and trusted and happy. Everything she had hoped to be in those moments. Those moments where the dream died.
This boy and this girl do not always cross paths. But when they do, they sit, and sometimes they talk quietly, afraid to disrupt the quiet. Others, they sit and they think. Of everything and nothing. Of good and bad. Of dreams and reality. Of existence and nonexistence. Of in-betweens. Thier own personal Hells.
They understand each other, this boy and this girl. Having experienced similar endings. Similar stories. And, though they will never be free, they meet.