Work Text:
“Hey, ’Rora.”
Aspen looks up at the glowing wall of ice, dark eyes somehow more shadowed than in past visits. His blouse is blackened and missing a sleeve, the cuffs of his trousers are charred, and his little cloak is missing a large chunk, clearly burned away. He clutches his satchel to his chest, fingers grasping its sides in order to keep closed the holes that were torn in the old leather when its strap was ripped away. He has no gloves on his hands nor shoes on his feet. The rags wrapped around his heels have frost melting in their folds.
The hunted set to his shoulders eases slightly, though, as he gazes at the girl in the ice. Slowly, the sharp lines melt from his shape along with the frost. His bag spills from his hands, and, unheeding, he steps over its scattered contents and stumbles his way up the shallow stone steps, drawn, as always, by the glow. His hands meet the wall first, then his forehead, and, finally, he allows his strength to give out and his knees to buckle.
“The world’s going crazy,” Aspen murmurs to the girl in the ice, staring numbly at where his hand is pressed against the wall. “I didn’t know a place covered in snow could burn.”
The girl does not answer. He wonders if maybe, this time, he can feel her warmth, even just a little, under the bite of the ice.
“’Rora…how much longer is this going to take?”
He waits.
He waits for the cold under his palm to hurt. He waits for his core to cool and for the rasp of his breath to stop scraping at his ears. He waits for the fires outside to become charcoal, and for the stars in the sky to dim. He waits for his memory to erode. He waits for the heat death of the universe. He waits for the girl to wake up.
He closes his eyes, he scrunches deeper into his cloak and closer to the ice, and he falls asleep.