A/N: I feel like my mind has been blanketed by snow, smothering all thought processes, hence quietness on the writing front. Also it doesn't help too much that it's -20 °C… However listening to Peter Bradley Adams' "Song for Viola" brought this forth. Please listen to that amazing song and enjoy the story!
Forlorn souls
He stood in the middle of the silence of a land heavily blanketed by snow, with the crystals sparkling in the mid winter sun. The fall of glittering dust from the blue sky showered him, dancing gently around him in a never ending cycle from sky to earth and back. A vast swathe of land opened in front of him, a thick forest of frosted trees was behind him. And silence reigned it all.
He stood still, letting the sun caress his face with its cold fingers, letting the glitter of fine snow crystals land on him, covering him, joining him with the winter, becoming a part of the snowy landscape.
He didn't notice the cold as his core was already ice, his tears frozen on his cheeks and clinging to his eye lashes, the frost woven into his blonde hair, the low temperature nipping at his skin, leaving white patches behind.
He didn't notice the passing of time, the sun in the sky giving its final kiss on his cheek before mournfully dipping under the horizon. Neither did he notice the moon's gentle stirring, the silver light enveloping everything and all, also taking him into its cold embrace.
Time went on and still he stood. The darkening sky gathered clouds, heavy with their burden and soon it was snowing in silence.
His still form collapsed and did not rise. He lay down, cheek against the coldness of the snow, eyes closed. The snow fell gently and silently on the man who had finally given up, comforting him in the only way a winter could, by offering the numbness of falling temperatures to ease the pain, offering the silence of falling snow to sooth the mind and the beauty of glittering snow in the moonlight to wipe away horrid images of the past.
His sluggish thoughts tried to surface for one more time before yielding to the tug of promise of warmth and deep sleep.
"Lisbon…"
TBC