Summary: Falling feels like silk slicking down his body. Coarse, unspun wool scours his face, scrubbing burning tracks across his eyes. [the void]
AN: A thought that grabbed me. What does it feel like, falling forever? Slipstreams tugging at your limbs, painful wind stinging your eyes, I imagined. It's probably different in the void, with the lack of air resistance and all. (Warning: symbolism galore. Feel free to PM me with any questions.)
Fabrics
Falling feels like silk slicking down his body, buffeting him on all sides with thick swathes of fabric. He thinks that he'll never be able to sleep in a luxurious bed royale after this.
(He remembers there is no after.)
If silk beats his body, then it is coarse, unspun wool that scours his face. Rough, scratched, burning tracks run across his eyes—not necessarily down because there is no down, or up, or gravity here.
Black leather and armor and metal must coat his ribs, then, because there is a distinct sensation of falling down.
He never does sleep in a padded bed again. Honest, hard lines in an honest, hard cell suit him much better.
Warm, unwanted skin replaces silk.
Bright, golden, well-spun wool has the courtesy to only rub his throat. (And sometimes, slip into the covers of a discreetly delivered book.)
And war regalia clings to his rib-cage inner, grounding and weighing him so that he will never fall again.