and then Asami is at the top of the stairs again and she isn't sure how, but she knows that it is the same as always, that nobody is there and that nobody has come for her. The walls are the same and hall is the same and she is the same, and she is alone, and safe, and so utterly cold.
She sometimes wishes that the house would fix itself, that the invisible ice on the wood and tile would melt somehow, but it seems to follow her, and even if it retreated again into that beautiful memory called summer, the cold would follow her anyway because it has crawled into her, it is her and it is living inside her skin, and try as she might, she cannot cut it out.
She descends the stairs and keeps descending; she thinks she may descend forever until her foot finally touches down upon the first floor of her beloved home, the only home she's ever known. This house belongs her, to none other, for it is all she has left of anything (of him, of them) and she must be certain that nothing about it will change.
She staggers through the building, one hand holding her left side (how it was hurting today, oh) and the other reaffirming ownership. She first runs her hand across the walls, hand-painted and gold-glowing and expertly erected. These walls are the arms that cradle her and her world, and she touches each one in every room before finding herself back where she started to begin again.
And as she does so (this time her fingertips touching the furniture and fireplaces and frames on the walls), she stumbles and clutches her side. She removes her hand and gazes at it. The stark brightness of the blood burns a hole of nostalgia through her, and she ponders why, for is there not so much color in her home? Is there not so much sunlight, pouring in from the windows?
And that thought makes her hesitate and the pain grips her side at that moment but she shakes it away, because she thinks-knows-that the windows are as they ever were and she does not need (does not dare) to look at them to know that, because sunlight is pouring in, after all, sunlight always reaches through those windows. Why else have windows but to welcome the day?
She staggers to the infirmary, the infirmary that is empty but for herself and the bandages she needs. She unravels herself of the bloodied ones and lifts the clean ones in her arms, or thinks that she does, for the bandages sometimes seem as air to her: firm but not, soft but not, here but not—
She thinks that she will maybe see a doctor soon about this, for she is sure that people do not bleed so frequently (all the time), that wounds should close up beneath so many bandages and good care, but she knows she should not bother, for soon she will not be alone, soon Mako finally will come home and he will care for her.
When Mako comes home, things will be as they should, and all her wounds will close.
and then Asami is at the top of the stairs again and she isn't sure how, but she knows that it is the same as always, that nobody is there and that nobody has come for her. The walls are the same and hall is the same and she is the same, and she is alone, and safe, and so utterly cold.
The cold seeps so heavily into her that it lies even deeper than her bones, and she is suddenly too daunted to consider the voyage down the stairwell (it might be colder down there—but how silly, why would it?) because her legs are tired and her bandages wet again.
And so, today she does not descend; she turns and walks along the corridor and she walks and walks and she thinks she may walk forever until she comes upon the mahogany door with the midnight carvings. This is her room, her haven, and she dives into it and everything here is as it always is: her bed, made neatly beneath its canopy; her jewelry and silver hairbrushes, glittering at the top of her vanity (she does not look in the mirror; why should she? She knows she looks fine) but most importantly, there is her blanket resting on her rocking chair, so lovingly crocheted by her beloved's grandmother.
She reaches for it.
And reaches for it
and she reaches for it and reaches for it, but somehow cannot take it.
She tries to jump the invisible space; she slams herself against the invisible wall and strains against invisible restrains. She wails. She cries. She begs. She shivers. It is no use. Always, always it is just beyond her reach, just shy of her fingertips, and always the sweet warmth of the blanket remains unattainable.
But the cold hardly matters, she chides herself, for it will go away, would it not? Soon, Mako will come home and wrap her in his promised embrace and bury her in his loving kisses and share with her his gentle fire, and she will be warm, warm with him, warm forever and not (not) alone.
and then Asami is at the top of the stairs and the walls are the same and hall is the same and she is the same, and she is so utterly cold, and she isn't sure how, but she knows that everything is different.
Something is changed.
Something has come.