A/N: Roar. ITZ MISTYYYY IM BACK! Ahha. I seem to be developing a liking for these kind of subtle, third-person-heavy-imply-metaphor-throughout-sorta types of writing. :D I apologize for the excessive amounts of commas and repetitive sentences. Kkrant end, enjoy!
Ever wonder why there is a spring and a fall?
Why summer is so lively, so bright?
Why winter so silent, so merciless?
Why fall is so beautiful but chokes with leaves?
He is Winter, the master of darkness and Night. When his time comes, the air grows lighter, sparser, painfully cold. He steals the vitality from the leaves and turns them into snow crystals that blanket the ground in slumber. Everything dies or flees from his merciless grasp, the birds migrating away, the animals cowering in a coma as his cold fingers dance through the air, wrenching warm breath out of people, expelling them in a mist of fog. He kidnaps all warmth, torturing them until warmth blinks with icy eyes. Then they all mass together as one sharp intent, ravaging through the landscape, causing woman to pull their coats tighter, scarves snugger across thin bodies. Their snowy breath knows no boundary.
But he is beautiful. He is tragically beautiful, shrouded in mystery and ice, endowed with a strong face and body. His art lies in the swirling patterns of mist and etchings of frost on windows. He is so breathtaking that women drown in shattered ice in attempt to join him. But it is futile. He is too cold, too dark.
Everywhere he goes, Winter's footsteps tell his legacy in ice and silence.
She is Summer, the entity of light and Day. When her day comes, the birds awaken and the trees stretch their limbs up to the bright sun in attempt for her to notice, to caress them with the touch of joy. The grass grows lush and tall, and the animals are up and scurrying about, with younglings chattering and insects whirring. The air is moist but fine, the ground is cool with dew but warm with sun, fresh water pouring down clean streams like waterfalls of nectar. Life is abundant; everything speaks of vitality and freedom.
But she is also fiery, fickle and furious. The scorching deserts are her creation, droughts at her command. Displease her and the heat never ends, cooking you alive in your turmoil. Fire is her element, giving heat and warmth, yet dangerous enough to kill. She is both feared and revered.
Despite this, though, a trail of flowers blesses her steps wherever she travels.
Her domain may be lovely, but Summer is lonesome for company. No living creature could match her, neither wit nor fiery temper, the flame in her green, green, orbs, or satisfy that deep craving she feels inside her heart.
So when the day draws to a close Summer travels to where the sun and the moon meet. There waiting is Winter, gaunt, quiet, and cold. He rises with the moon. And for a moment, everyone is silent. Slowly Winter's head lifts from it's eternal gaze at the dust, and he faces her. And it's laughable, because he doesn't say anything, no "Good evenings" or "Hello" s. But then Summer's tired face lights up, and regains some of the radiance lost from the day. She smiles, and the sun's light flares up behind her, and her face is alive, alert, positively beaming. Winter's façade doesn't change, but somehow there's something in his face that seems to lose some of it's haunting tragedy, and the iciness that is his core thaws around the edges, and suddenly he's not so gaunt or haggard-he seems human.
"Sasuke," she breathes, and she flies over the wet grass and collides against him. Her arms find their way around his neck, and he can feel her warm breath melt some of the frost slick against his skin. He doesn't move. But then, inside her sweet embrace, something stirs in him. It grows and grows, and something flashes behind his eyes, something distant and buried from long ago. The setting sun settles to an amber tone and paints the clouds into pink cotton candy. The horizon is the color of oranges and cherry blossoms, hazy and muted.
He doesn't let the stained-scarlet bodies resurface to mind, but he lets himself melt somewhat, enough for his irises to soften and his arms-strong but hesitant-to wrap themselves around her small form.
And it is that moment, when he finally gives in, that the sun's rays streak across the dotted landscape, casting everything into a light, solid gold. The pastels mixed with the clouds blend beautifully together, and everywhere animals and people stop to watch the starburst of color.
The canvas of molten sky shimmers, and then the dying light pierces through the heavens before burning away to glowing embers.
The intertwined forms off in the distance do not speak, nor do they seem aware of the display, but they feel. Summer's heart is quick and fluttery, like a dove's wings, her cheeks rosy with a tone to match her hair. Her form is pressed against his. She smells bittersweet but delicate, a scent that he commits to memory. His heart does not quite pound, but it does beat-once, twice. It's a steady thump that reminds Summer of drums-steady and strong. The masculinity rolling off of him in waves speaks of strength and solitude, musky with bitter cold. She buries her head into his chest and tries to savor the moment while she still can.
But all too soon the young man's grip begins to tighten with growing strength, and Sakura feels her own vitality drain away. The clouds are tainted blue now, and the receding sun is quickly surrounded by an overcast shade of blurred indigo-black. She's running out of time. Winter's chilled atmosphere is beginning to seep back in; the sun is but a blip of butter on top of the grass.
With the last trickle of light, she slips out of his hold and holds his hands; their gazes locked until she, too, fades away.
The leaves rustle as her last breath sighs through the air:
"Remember me."
Sasuke looks around, and the wind whips around a night breeze. No one is there. All is slumbering, the crickets his companions. The moon is rising; pale and waxing like a shard of white glass. He stares at the space where something warm and tangible once was, then looks down at his hands, feeling his heart closing with every minute, the memories ebbing away like a recurring tide.
So he takes a string of silver and strings shining points through it that gleam like glistening teardrops. Silently, steadily, he throws it into the air and sews them into constellations of memory through the long, lonely hours. He even shapes one into the form of a girl and names her Virgo, for the earth that they both tread on.
It is still dark when he finished, even more so then before. The moon is uncaring, the howling of wolves is chilling, but he doesn't flinch. He finds an oak tree and slowly sinks down to the ground, burying his hand into the wet earth. His eyes watch the stars twinkle in the dark, waiting for an even more mystical and beautiful light to arrive.
Waiting for morning.
Ever wonder why sometimes the day flies so quickly?
Why day and night are joined by sunset and sunrise?
Why the in-betweens of day and night collide so brilliantly in a sunset?
Why the darkness seems to hug the first eastern rays of light?
fin.
A/N: AHHA FINALLY FINISHED. TOOK ME FOREVER~ PROBABLY CUZ i AFK-ED SO MUCH WHILE WRITING IT...EHHE 3. Anyway, review, tell me what you think. REVIEWS MOTIVATE, REMEMBER THAT PEOPLE!
kk. peace out!
P.S. constructive criticism and flames welcome. And ego-lifting praise, that too xD