The whir of the needle punctuating his skin with jet black ink was an unfamiliar sound yet the burning sensation it caused him was cathartic. The artist sat on a stool perhaps just a little too close to him, but with a comforting degree of concentration etched on his face.
It had been a year. A year since he last saw her, something he felt he needed to remind himself of, to mark as passing, yet something to mourn. The world was a little dimmer without her yet still he trudged on, his now bland life supplying him with enough entertainment to sit back and watch it stray by him, endless monotony stopping him from dwelling on what could not be.
He wondered, briefly, if he would ever be able to see with those eyes again, those eyes that held the ability to gaze upon a small frame bedecked with familiar black robes, darkest black hair and an attitude way bigger than the body it was contained in. He missed those eyes. They made him him, and yet he was no longer that boy, so who was he?
Finished, the artist pushed his chair back to examine his work; a crisp outline of black on lightly tanned skin.
"Dance"
She was dancing, white and twirling, elegant steps forming firm outlines in the snow, light breath forming small opaque clouds as she huffed in the cold air. Exerting her body physically; pushing it as far as it would let her, her muscles fatigued but resigned to their torture. She would be stronger. She would make her brother proud. She would make him proud. And when he could see her next he would let her glimpse, for a split second, the warmth in his eyes, the pride of seeing her be the woman he knew she could be.
Beautiful.
