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Snow came gently down the night before. And today the world was encased in winter's blanket.
The weather controller of this region hadn't once let down its inhabitants ever since the machine’s installment many millennia ago. It knew that one mistake could cost it everything, it always made sure it did its job correctly the first time.
An air so crisp, so fresh that each breath burns and stings eyes into watery submission. Cheeks become ice that harden with every gust. The red glow of frostbite roots itself to exposed flesh. The only shield from this frozen world is a tired scarf, a sun-bleached cape and traveler’s hat. Frost slowly creeped up the edges of the tattered fabrics. As it spreads across the worn surface it slowly unites the solitary figure clad in black as it crosses the newborn tundra.
The blue of the sky was as pale as the fresh powdery snow, and not a cloud could be made out. Clouds wouldn't dare to cast a shadow on a perfect vision.
But that didn't stop soaring splotches of ink.
Falcons don't care if they stain the snow with their silhouettes. They're too close to the heavens to ever care about the lives scattered across the frontier. They only notice the lives below if it satiates their appetite.
But for now, only a light shadow had the courage to cross this desolate surface. The regular shimmer of the snow became half as bright under its weight. No other beings crept along this land, yet branding it now is the reminder of the alien shadow’s passage. However, the figure’s steps are not brave enough to carve a dent into the deep snow. Like the trail of a small bird looking for grains and seeds, there was only a soft imprint of a worn down boot that patterned the blanket now turned quilt.
In this quilt, there’s a tear. The only one who would dare place a wound here was nature itself, and It wasn't silent. It fought, it gushed, it surged, cursed ears could never miss the sound of flowing water. The sole other noise in the desolate winter plain was the song of the birds and the shrills of the falcon. The soundscapes of different worlds clashed, but still harmony prevailed.
The pattern stopped along the edge of the shallow crevice.
The half shadow paused and watched from above.
A stream filled with the smallest minnows.
Long ago, there would have been no life in this unforgiving cold land. But the nobility toyed with even the smallest of lives. Now minnows that could survive even the bitterest winters inhabited deafening streams. What were they after?
An eternity could be spent counting the silver freckles of the water. Little lives populating an enclosed world. Are they aware of this gaze? Can a minnow look up? down? Can silver only see left to right, right to left? Does metal hold memories?
Silver freckles, small lives, little minds.
Does a weapon remember?
Incense and candle smoke heavy in the air. It slithers its way down empty corridors.
Architecture that only acquaintanced dusk and night. Rooms made of contradiction. Claustrophobic, untouchable walls and unperceivable ceilings.The noise of a rushing stream is gone, only the clicking of heels reverberated in nostalgic dark halls.
All knowing stains diluted into the dark floors
I remember.
Whispers,
Gossip,
Talk.
Fingers brought to shushing lips.
Those cold rooms were occupied with whispers of a new arrival.
They died out as they rang up the walls to meet a ceiling they will never meet.
But some got lost and found these cursed ears.
Her,
Beautiful,
Perfect.
When you entered, the room filled with the scent of willow and powder. The vision of crimson satin, hard marble, and twilight was replaced with varying shades of white coming in soft cotton,and silk. Lace decorated each and every trim. Beads woven into patterns that trailed down the fabric all the way to the floor. In the candlelight of the dimly lit world, each crystal shimmered like silver in a stream. As you moved the light danced and the room was bathed in freckles. Obsidian statues, floors of ebony, the untouchable walls came to know your grace.
I remember.
Then you came into my arms.
In all the chaos of folds and cuts, there was peace nestled inside.
Ruddy, impossibly round cheeks.
The smallest delicate hands.
Glistening clear eyes.
The weight of the fabric and the cold of the room melted away as you mumbled in a tongue that only you understood. How many are there that have the same complexion as the candles that stifle this stagnant air? You're like the freshest snow. Snow that crunches beneath the soles. It's surface an archive of all that has ever been. And it shimmers exactly like those eyes of yours.
You looked perfect.
I went to brush away a small lock that escaped the confines of the river of cloth. You seized the opportunity and took me in your hand..
Already so small, the right size to be cradled in one arm. Now you seemed even tinier with your little hand that couldn’t fully clasp around my finger.
I don't know how long already you've been in this dark candle-lit world, or how much of an eternity of it you’re destined to suffer.
But eternity is so far away, and the present is clutched around my hand.
So healthy and strong, nothing could be done to release my finger from its prison. Each attempt made your smile grow ever wider. As long as I writhed the smile stayed alive. It must be so amusing to watch someone as big as me trapped by your own small hand. Your giggles and jargon fills the quiet room. I’d never see a candle lit room become as bright ever again.
I don’t think I ever saw something so perfect as you.
But it wasn’t enough.
It never was enough.
Did you even know who I was?
I remember, little sister.
I never held you again after that.
An eternity.
I never saw you again.
A shriek shatters the frozen air
The smell that only exists swaddled in the scent of incense and candle smoke.
You were perfect.
The minnows are gone.
Perfect.
An appetite never abated.