AN: Hello! So I was going through my old stuff, and I dug up something I wrote a few years ago. It seemed fitting for Russia, therefore I modified it a bit into Rochu. However inadequate it may be, I hope you will still enjoy it.
Breathing in the scent of peony, he lies in a blanket of snow. Nothingness extends ahead of him; the whiteness blinds his eyes, but he has long gotten used to it. The cold must have taken a hold of his mind, for he can no longer recall his name. Did he have a name? Was he even human?
Time seems to either stop, or proceed rapidly without his awareness. Tiny snowflakes flutter around him, falling beautifully on his frozen body. They never melt, only imprint themselves as layers of frost, piling and piling onto this decaying stack of flesh; pirouetting, swaying, each to the beat of their own rhythm, harmonizing a nostalgic symphony, which soon turns to a melancholy melody.
Between the falling snow, he can hear distant laughter, see flickers of silhouettes shifting and unrecognizable events flashing right before his diseased eyes. As swift and quietly as they come, those stolen moments are deafened by the noise of cannons and shouting. Then all is silent, the stillness has its own sound and it invades his remaining sanity. The snow is coming down wetter. But this is not snow, instead tears. How can I be crying when all of my consciousness has left my body; how can I be crying when I don't even remember the reasons for these tears? The entirety of his existence aches for an unquenchable thirst, his motionless heart pounds desperately clenching onto the fading illusion. "Don't go," he whispers to the blurring images. "Don't leave me here." But as if his words got lost among the drifting snow, the faraway shadows keep meandering further and further away from his grasp.
Suppressing the cold, and lifting his no-longer-functioning limbs, he commands his body to stand up. Like a lifeless doll with an inexperienced puppeteer, he begins chasing after the figment of what was long gone.
From the distance, he sees a lone shadow standing in this world devoid of color. It is not long until he reaches the shadow that he realizes it was the outline of a person. The figure, however, did not have a face. Rather, his whole face was obscured like a camera gone out of focus. Camera, where did he acquire the knowledge of such a strange word?
"The Union has fallen." The sound of the stranger's voice pierces through him.
"What union… what are you talking about?" Confusion spreads like wildfire through his body.
But there is no reply. In the absence of an answer, the shadow chuckles softly.
"You don't remember anything do you?"
"No, I don't," he mutters in a cluttered voice. "Please, if you know about this place, about me, about anything, please tell me!"
"Your name is Ivan," though he cannot see his face there is an undeniably sadness to the way he spoke.
Ivan… The name feels unfamiliar to him.
"And this place is not real," the figure continues.
"Am I dying?" It will not be surprising if he is. For a person who doesn't remember anything he feels that the life he lived was too long and only brought despair for others.
"That depends on how you define dying."
"I don't mind dying if that will take me some place warm," he silently muses. Using what is left of his remaining strength he pleads, "Please don't leave me, Yao."
The name lands upon his lips like a butterfly kiss; he does not know where it comes from, or even why he whispered such a peculiar word. Even as he forgets who he is, his consciousness refuses to let him forget about one person.
"So you do remember," the faceless person utters woefully. "Even as you cannot remember my face, even as your own memory fails to recognize who you are, you still remember that pitiful name."
AN: I hope that wasn't too bad, I am planning a horror/sci-fi story so that will definitely be more well written than whatever this is lol. Leave me a comment if you're up for it, other than that, have a wonderful day! ^J^