Notes: I apparently still can't write anything over 500 words. Most of what I do write tends to be weird, like this. I guess I'm just leaving it up to you to interpret what happened.
Guardians
We're building our kingdom in the sky.
He dreams—
of Bianca and her sunny smile and dusting of freckles and big green hat perpetually perched on blonde hair. Her laughter echoes in his mind; too cheerful, overly infectious. Beside her is Cheren and his studious whims, his quirky habit of pushing his glasses up his nose and socially awkward mannerisms.
But it is not long until they, too, fade into the blackness. They're screaming and shouting for help, but all he can do is stand there and watch them disappear into the waiting arms of the chasm.
It was always inevitable, he thinks.
Other times, he dreams of his mother. He hasn't seen her in months, maybe years, but he instantly recognizes her rich chocolate hair, the same shade as his. Just the sight of her is comforting, reminding him of honey cakes and warm sunshine and wildflowers. She's waiting for him with outstretched arms, her embrace only an arm's length away.
"Welcome home, Black," she says with a smile.
He wakes with a start.
.
.
.
"Sleep well?" White says, poking at the dying embers with a stick. They are huddled together in front of the last remains of their fire, desperately seeking warmth and shelter from the icy weather.
"Better than usual," he says with a shrug.
Shivering, he blows on frost-bitten fingers and his mind floats off, wondering if he had ever known another life. Beside him, her breath comes out in small puffs that disappear into the ever-consuming abyss, dying as quickly as they come.
.
.
.
Sometimes when he dreams, he sees flashes, snapshots of his past life. A black dragon with blood-red eyes standing before him, turning his heart to ice. A hero and a villain clashing in a world of black and white. A kingdom destroyed, shards of cracked marble and shattered glass, broken pillars of sand and salt. A young man with moss-green hair and conflicted ideals. And the blood. Always the blood, torn flesh, and bones.
Then it disappears all at once, and he screams.
He would not care to remember.
He feels arms snake their way around him, strong and steady and self-assured. "I'm here," she whispers hoarsely, and it's all he can do not to completely break down. He rests his head on her shoulder and draws greedy, shuddering gulps of air. His fingers find hers and squeeze, hungry for the contact.
And their bodies turn to stone, blank gazes drifting off into the mind-numbing frozen atmosphere.