He remembers a time before.

Seconds ago, eons ago,

Upon his father's brow, a diadem,

In his shaking hand, a quill

Before –

His body. Twisting, stretching, growing.

Then the pain. Drilling into his bones, splitting his skull.

Screaming, but his lungs crumple.

Darkness.

Eternal cold.

Hunger next.

Never enough to fill

The gapping chasm of his stomach.

He wanted to die.

To sleep, never waken.

But that choice had been stripped, torn away.

He remembers a time before,

Moments ago, centuries ago

Running wild, chasing the wind

Jumping, laughing, whooping

Before –

His body, lumbering.

White, heavy, silent

As he shuffles through snow with paws;

Death in a swipe.

Always he moves towards the cold,

Never ceasing, he searches

For a vision.

But his dreams have been mangled, broken away.

He remembers, he forgets

Memories stolen and buried.

Lost.

His morning keen is fearsome to behold.

Lost, he must wander and roam,

Searching until he finds the one.

Her.

Hoarfrost gossips,

Icicles tug his fur,

Winds whisper in his ear.

Dazed he stumbles, grunts.

Black eyes flickering,

With an emotion not seen in decades.

He lifts his shaggy head,

Pointing his nose south,

Massive chest aching with desire.

But,

Not hope.

Never hope.

Long ago

His hope was snatched, destroyed,

Taken.

A/N: I'm back early! *Cheers* Though I don't suppose this really counts as a true chapter. This is obviously from the Isbjørn's (I'm pretty sure it means white bear, but don't quote me on it) POV. I got the idea of poetry from Edith Pattou's East. I'm certainly no Robert Frost, but I like it. It was either that or stream of consciousness…I spared you. Review if you like it. Thanks a billion Enchiladas and Jacob Flores. Saffy Pen over and out (Roger that Houston… sorry, I'm a dork ;P).