music: sadame for piano // sato naoki (xtv soundtrack)
mood: accomplished
prompts: blood, snow;
His eyes stare up blankly at the sky, and the clouds are thinner now than they had been hours before. There is no more snow -- none at least that might fall on his face or his body, and the silence is broken only by the rush of wind as it plays in the branches of the trees or the sound of some animal crying out into the night. At another time he might have blinked, but hours of exposure to the cold has robbed him of that, and all he can do now is lie and wait while the stars glitter like drops of water against the blue-black sky.
Ice crusts on his cheeks and around his eyes, under his fingernails and inside his clothes. His body is whole and few cuts mar his skin, but he is defeated and useless, much like a still sturdy wheel attached to a now broken carriage.
The smell of blood is around him, and it coats the air that passes over and through him as he breathes, little as he does. The scent is both elusive and concrete, and it snakes it's way into his nostrils and down the pathway that allows air to kiss the back of his tongue. The smell stains the walls of his throat, and from there it crawls up like a thousand insects to coat his mouth like paint would a canvas. He is no longer sure if the blood he seems to swallow is his; the chill of the night can dry anything.
Something flits across his vision, and for a moment the world blurs causing what little light there is from the stars and the moon to bleed into the shadows that lurk all around.
So many, he hears the sound of his own voice echo emptily at the back of his head. They had been so many -- a caravan traveling from the bright city towards the destination of home, the men singing atop their horses while the women joined in from where they sat. He is unaware that the ice on his skin are the tears that his eyes have shed, and it matters little as his thoughts are elsewhere now, in a place where her laughter rings in his ears and her hand is warm and safely held in his. Indeed, they are still many, though the road is now silent and still, and all but he is slain in the middle of a half-forgotten road.
mood: accomplished
prompts: blood, snow;
His eyes stare up blankly at the sky, and the clouds are thinner now than they had been hours before. There is no more snow -- none at least that might fall on his face or his body, and the silence is broken only by the rush of wind as it plays in the branches of the trees or the sound of some animal crying out into the night. At another time he might have blinked, but hours of exposure to the cold has robbed him of that, and all he can do now is lie and wait while the stars glitter like drops of water against the blue-black sky.
Ice crusts on his cheeks and around his eyes, under his fingernails and inside his clothes. His body is whole and few cuts mar his skin, but he is defeated and useless, much like a still sturdy wheel attached to a now broken carriage.
The smell of blood is around him, and it coats the air that passes over and through him as he breathes, little as he does. The scent is both elusive and concrete, and it snakes it's way into his nostrils and down the pathway that allows air to kiss the back of his tongue. The smell stains the walls of his throat, and from there it crawls up like a thousand insects to coat his mouth like paint would a canvas. He is no longer sure if the blood he seems to swallow is his; the chill of the night can dry anything.
Something flits across his vision, and for a moment the world blurs causing what little light there is from the stars and the moon to bleed into the shadows that lurk all around.
So many, he hears the sound of his own voice echo emptily at the back of his head. They had been so many -- a caravan traveling from the bright city towards the destination of home, the men singing atop their horses while the women joined in from where they sat. He is unaware that the ice on his skin are the tears that his eyes have shed, and it matters little as his thoughts are elsewhere now, in a place where her laughter rings in his ears and her hand is warm and safely held in his. Indeed, they are still many, though the road is now silent and still, and all but he is slain in the middle of a half-forgotten road.
4 comments:
Heartwrenching, absolutely heartwrenching. This is the perfect prelude to your entire drabble set; it almost sets the tone for the whole thing. I know that I can expect some comedy, but on the whole, it will be painful, and there will be tears - lots of them.
On that note...poor Seiichiro. The only one left alive after what was obviously a hard battle... Oh, and the wheel and blood imagery reminds me of that poem that Dr. Bayot gave to us. Interesting, don't you think?
Considering how many times I obsessed over the wording and details... *sighs*
To her muse: Seiichiro, you make my life difficult.
Which poem? The one with the wheel barrow? I found that a bit disturbing. The thing about the chickens and the subtext of "death". *shudders* But yeah, now that you mention it, there is something similar.
(Does that mean then that Seiichiro is the chicken? XD)
Seiichiro = Chicken?
*winces*
Oww...
But considering what Hideaki would do to him, he might as well be - dead, I mean.
*sweatdrop*
XD
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