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The thoughts stalking the shadows of his consciousness brought traces of bitter residue to the back of the youth’s tongue. His own mind was a complex machinery, it seemed, with impulses and signals trailing along his flawed core with messages contradicting each other. The calm he possessed was fuelled by her inability to rise up and spread her silvery wings for the unkind breaths of frost to take her away from his closeness. Yet, there seemed to be disappointment lingering, deep in the darkness of the pits where not even he could gaze down at the truth that was him. How could it be that he did not know himself? He would have believed the possibility to be nonsense, but here he sat, bewilderment growing behind a locked mask of an artist with issues.
Drawing soundless breaths of white and gray, she portrayed the sea as he loved it most; subtle fine waves with a delicate layer of white spray. Was there an upset storm on the move? Fingers that were not his curled against a blonde biceps, and the lean muscle silently tightened under that sudden, physical move of the fairytale creature beside his blonde form. Dusk wished to settle on her delicate features again, but gaze refused, and strayed further from grace. The fallen Prince heard her words and could only wonder at their nature—were they as true as the horror following thick and slick through her upset melody? Banished for having endured his simple touch? The idea of punishment only strengthened the building bile in his throat; for he did not understand any of this half as well as he wished he could.
She had not reached for him for comfort or desire, but in urgency. A pallid white hand settled on top of her frozen fingers regardless, exchanging warmth with cold. Why wouldn’t his mind remain Iceland; neutral and draw him out of the conflict? Her fears were not his, but he responded to them anyway. He had lost everything, but she did not have to. He supposed he could give her that much.
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