Chapter Text
THE STEP
The ground crunched under boots as one foot stepped in front of the other. Sometimes the foot was on pure snow, but sometimes it stepped on a grassy green, preserved under the frosty lumps that were softened by the afternoon sun.
Left behind the steps are marks etched upon a path walked by many before him, and left behind are steps that will soon be walked over by many after him, only staying for the brief moment the world lets it.
Soon the marks would lead up to a door, handle cold to the touch but unfelt through thick gloves.
The steps passed through the door, small clumps of snow falling, and in front of him was a small, unlit entrance, with only the windows as a source of light. The steps would then stop, before careening to the right to the wall. Attached there were two hooks, and the figure slipped his coat down, one arm, then the other, mechanical and stiff, before hanging it on the second hook, the first hook untouched.
There'd be a minute pause, before the floors would creak under weight as the figure knelt down, untying the laces that kept the boot tight against his feet. Before the kneeling figure stood a place for his shoes, and as he stepped out of the worn footwear, made for harsh, rigid ground, he'd place it beside another set of boots, not his size, but forever staying, nowhere else to go.
"It's unfair," he whispered.
Before setting off, steps not creaking like before. He'd pass the entrance into the living room, an unlit fireplace on the side, and in front of it, a short wooden table and a couch that only fits two. Laid over one side was a quilted blanket that created a gradient from dark blue to purple, and nearby on the table was a ceramic cup, unwashed, still standing.
To the right of the living room is a small kitchen, little notes stuck on the board of things to do and things to buy, but the steps wouldn't stay for long, only a moment's pause, before heading up the stairs, passing a room with a dusty handle, his name etched upon the board hanging upon the door.
You should be here with me.
Up the stairs stood a door, its handle worn, undusty, used, time and time again. And like the door passed earlier, a board hung upon its surface, and etched on it was a name that doesn't belong to him, but one he whispers to himself constantly, unforgetting. A prayer, as if saying the name would make its owner appear.
Past the door lies an unmade bed, and one foot stepped in front of the other, before climbing in the cradle of the arms of a ghost. As his head laid upon the pillows, he'd turn to face the window, where the light rays would shine through, the lumps of snow lining the bottom, a bit of the rays. A sigh would then come, then soft breathing, dreaming.
In his dreams, the ground crunched under boots as one foot stepped in front of the other. Sometimes the foot was on pure snow, but sometimes it stepped on a grassy green, preserved under the frosty lumps that were softened by the afternoon sun.
Left behind the steps are marks etched upon a path walked by many before him, and left behind are steps that are made by another set of boots. The two sets of boots would walk together, step by step, and following that, a glow of white.
Watching the winter melting for spring.
THE CRADLE
Smoke covered the scene, blinding any who looked from outside and any who stayed within. Any sounds heard were from falling rubble, but hidden within the falling debris was a patter, then another, and another, fast, continuous, until it stopped.
Through the smoke, sounded bangs and rumbles, heavy at first, then soon rang lighter and lighter, until the only sounds were reminiscent of the little bits of gravel that fall through the cracks from the hand that holds.
There was nothing to see, only air poisoned by destruction, and through the field, the most prominent, was the structure that once held four walls.
But if you listen closely, maybe even squint your eyes, you'll sense a figure.
A man. Or maybe a boy? Would the world care about the difference?
For this wasn’t the first time, or the second, or the third.
It wasn’t as if he wasn’t used to this, to destruction, to loss.
And this wasn’t his cradle, his nest, his home.
So his mourning was senseless. For the moment he stayed was a moment of weakness, and there was no safety in being weak.
And yet…
“It’s unfair,” he says.
To no one.
To the universe.
Both answered with silence.
And in return a whisper, a groan, then a crash. Debris from walls that once held lives tumbling down followed by a thud as body hits the ground. Multiple shouts came from the distance echoing death.
A slap sounded against stone as the boy dragged himself up, and took flight, opposite the sounding march, and soon the wave of clomps neared, slowing to a stop as the whispers grew among them.
Under, life laying 'pon debris.
They'd eventually continue on, though they wouldn't catch him, no. Not whilst he passed after ruins and ruins until the first crunch of grass announced its step out of the boundaries of its cradle.
And pass the boundaries under the blissful grass and the swaying trees, the boy could hear laughing by his side and he couldn't help but laugh with him as well, alive as a glow white breaks through.
A reflection of everything that once was dear to me.
THE FALL
Dirt scattered from its grounds as a foot grinded into its place. The terrain transforming as foot after foot grounded itself as clangs of bright blue clashed against each other, each clash forcing one pair then the other to drag against the dirt.
Grunts came through one of the weapons whilst the other chuckles pushing back against the tiring sword, its hold lowering with every passing moment. A gleeful voice rang through the air though its words remained unheard as the wavering sword stumbled to the ground, grip barely there.
The same voice rang out, victory on its lips, and the fallen weapon's grip tightened upon the still foreign hilt of its sword, before releasing in favour of the familiar wooden curve of a bow, and taking its shot, the gleeful victory turned to a shout, enraged.
Demands echoed through the field but none came through the bow but satisfaction for doing what its made for.
The echoes continued until it quiets, until the only thing that popped out was its… his name.
And all of a sudden, the figure, the man, on the ground with his own life in his hands trembled, before pushing towards the overarching entrance with yells behind him that will continue to be ignored.
Beneath him dirt became grass, became stone, and what once was death's marches slowed into peace's steps as stone turned back to grass once again, approaching a small cove that promised safety.
In the hidden cove, anger reigned against the walls that could not fight back.
"It's unfair", he yelled.
The wooden curves turning into a sturdy hilt slashing against the wall, then another. The same weapon that clipped a part of him, a part that would never come back. The same weapon that was given to him as his only means of survival, the tip digging deeper and sharper upon weapons and weapons like him. The clangs against stone grew defeaning, the grunts turning to hitches as he slowly collapse into a curl, breath in constant instability, clutching against the cold blade before turning it back to the rounded bow. The breathing slowed and soon quiets, tiredness taking over, light shining as the sky shines over his home, a tenseness remains over as bright white glows.
For even 'spite his dreams,
He'll wake to blood and dirt, roots far from his reach.
3 Parrots VS The Unstable SMP
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