And Its Cold Embrace
Tuesday, August 11th, 2015 11:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
serai.
I suppose it's time I post this here.
And Its Cold Embrace
by Serai
There is a fire in Ethan's mind.
Most of the time it is banked, a blanket of blood-red coals lining his thoughts, its glow painting the world in colors he wishes did not exist. He feels the heat burn his fingertips every time he reaches out - for companionship, for comfort, for a simple connection to another soul. It hisses and fills his eyes with whispers: Be careful, it warns, Too close and I will take you, and you will never know what happened. He thinks of fire, and blood, and the shivering, aching horror every time he awakens feeling within himself scorched earth and smoke-filled skies, the ruin that dogs his steps. He knows he must not approach, he must stand apart, yet he cannot. His heart will not allow him to stay aloof, and so he touches, enters other lives, a hidden part of him trembling at the danger he presents to every living soul in his path, his mouth lined with the remnants of murders he cannot remember committing.
Years ago, a traveler passing through the territory told him about his home in Russia. “There are such forests,” he said, “where a man might lose himself for years, never knowing where the trees will lead him.” There was a small, deep valley in that forest, the man said, bowl-shaped, the hills above it lined with dark twining trees that outlined the snowfall in winter. “After the storm passes, the valley is white, white, like a canvas waiting before an artist. When the moon comes out, its light fills that place that is deep and quiet.”
He listened, picturing the place, the light filling and reflecting, back and forth until the slopes were brilliant with it. “It’s as bright as day then,” the traveler said, summoning a sad smile that did not reach his eyes. “But the light is cold. It dazzles the eye and blinds the mind to anything else. And there are bears,” he went on. “They come out in the moonlight to dance together, circling round and gazing at the moon. I saw them once, looking up at its face and roaring to each other. It was…” and he did not go on, bowing his head over his vodka, his eyes distant.
Magical, he thought then as he thinks now, remembering the story. The image of that place haunts him. The depth, the silence, the solitude, but most of all the light. He tries to imagine himself standing there, the brilliance surrounding him like a glass globe. What would that light do to him? Would it burn him, flashing through his body with unstoppable force, layering him until his blood boiled away in cold fury, leaving only the teeth and claws he would gladly tear out of his own flesh? Or would it strengthen him even more, call out the spirit of massacre that waits just beyond the fire, in the dark recesses where he cannot even see it? Would the chill storm of light fix that demon in place forever, so that he could never return to the world?
And he thinks of the bears, their huge paws laying out complex marks in the snow as they pace each other. He knows the danger of those animals, knows they do not love the thing he becomes, and thinks perhaps they might help him. They would not shrink away in fear, but descend like a hurricane of pain and death which even the beast could not endure. There would be peace, finally, at the mercy of creatures who would not care where he had come from or what he had done. What burdens he carries. They would only see the wolf ravening in the moonlight, daring them to approach, and spare not a thought before they fell on him.
Someday he will go there, he tells himself, staring silently through the bars of his cage at the man placidly watching him. The man who does not know what sits before him, who does not realize how flimsy those bars are, who does not smell the coming of his own death. He will go there, and give himself to the light, to pain and oblivion, to his ending, and the fire will finally go out, hissing its last sparks as it dies forever. There will be no more blood, no more horror, no more heartache, and his soul will be released to escape into the dark woods, teeth and claws discarded in the brilliant silence.
.
I suppose it's time I post this here.
And Its Cold Embrace
by Serai
There is a fire in Ethan's mind.
Most of the time it is banked, a blanket of blood-red coals lining his thoughts, its glow painting the world in colors he wishes did not exist. He feels the heat burn his fingertips every time he reaches out - for companionship, for comfort, for a simple connection to another soul. It hisses and fills his eyes with whispers: Be careful, it warns, Too close and I will take you, and you will never know what happened. He thinks of fire, and blood, and the shivering, aching horror every time he awakens feeling within himself scorched earth and smoke-filled skies, the ruin that dogs his steps. He knows he must not approach, he must stand apart, yet he cannot. His heart will not allow him to stay aloof, and so he touches, enters other lives, a hidden part of him trembling at the danger he presents to every living soul in his path, his mouth lined with the remnants of murders he cannot remember committing.
Years ago, a traveler passing through the territory told him about his home in Russia. “There are such forests,” he said, “where a man might lose himself for years, never knowing where the trees will lead him.” There was a small, deep valley in that forest, the man said, bowl-shaped, the hills above it lined with dark twining trees that outlined the snowfall in winter. “After the storm passes, the valley is white, white, like a canvas waiting before an artist. When the moon comes out, its light fills that place that is deep and quiet.”
He listened, picturing the place, the light filling and reflecting, back and forth until the slopes were brilliant with it. “It’s as bright as day then,” the traveler said, summoning a sad smile that did not reach his eyes. “But the light is cold. It dazzles the eye and blinds the mind to anything else. And there are bears,” he went on. “They come out in the moonlight to dance together, circling round and gazing at the moon. I saw them once, looking up at its face and roaring to each other. It was…” and he did not go on, bowing his head over his vodka, his eyes distant.
Magical, he thought then as he thinks now, remembering the story. The image of that place haunts him. The depth, the silence, the solitude, but most of all the light. He tries to imagine himself standing there, the brilliance surrounding him like a glass globe. What would that light do to him? Would it burn him, flashing through his body with unstoppable force, layering him until his blood boiled away in cold fury, leaving only the teeth and claws he would gladly tear out of his own flesh? Or would it strengthen him even more, call out the spirit of massacre that waits just beyond the fire, in the dark recesses where he cannot even see it? Would the chill storm of light fix that demon in place forever, so that he could never return to the world?
And he thinks of the bears, their huge paws laying out complex marks in the snow as they pace each other. He knows the danger of those animals, knows they do not love the thing he becomes, and thinks perhaps they might help him. They would not shrink away in fear, but descend like a hurricane of pain and death which even the beast could not endure. There would be peace, finally, at the mercy of creatures who would not care where he had come from or what he had done. What burdens he carries. They would only see the wolf ravening in the moonlight, daring them to approach, and spare not a thought before they fell on him.
Someday he will go there, he tells himself, staring silently through the bars of his cage at the man placidly watching him. The man who does not know what sits before him, who does not realize how flimsy those bars are, who does not smell the coming of his own death. He will go there, and give himself to the light, to pain and oblivion, to his ending, and the fire will finally go out, hissing its last sparks as it dies forever. There will be no more blood, no more horror, no more heartache, and his soul will be released to escape into the dark woods, teeth and claws discarded in the brilliant silence.
.
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