It was a vast, empty sensation, that drowned Will's mind. So that the entire surrounding world seemed eerie; surreal, like a migrane. Nothing was quite in focus; her vision a kalidescope of colours, while she knew she stared down at pure white - the raging torrents of confused trills in an equal opposition to the chasm of her inner turmoil. Steam, now, rather than water seemed to slice past her skin; the sheer temperature creating pure white mist from the nozzle, as well as blistering hot showers of raindrops she could not feel in comparison to those of earlier, though, then, she hadn't felt those either - she'd been distracted.

She got it. In the end. Everything she had wanted, though then it had been wrong. Caleb was too sorry, and the warm drink had looked like blood christened mud. And her mother had been at home when she pushed the door open - a surprise to say the least, but a pleasant one too. Not that she felt it; Will could only presume that she'd be grateful, as she possibly ought to have with Caleb - not that it mattered. Her dismissal would be rectified; she'd fix it all tomorrow. After all. He'd left her.

But she was sure that she'd be happy her mother was home, and had forced out something, semi-coherent, that breifly stated that she would shower first. It had to have been hours ago.

The feeling of the dead. Perhaps. That nothingness, laced with disconcern and a loathing: of what she did not understand.. It felt something of her father's retreat, though she was quite sure she did not loath herself, and this time there wasn't something missing.. It all was. And she had herself: in her body.. Somewhere. But she seemed unable to reach that and she only felt the cold.. In her warm house and scarring shower.

Ice cold. Will knew she would be scalding herself; her skin tingling and slowly becoming red before it would begin performing welts.. But she couldn't stop; couldn't leave; couldn't get out. Not yet. Not until the heat reached her. Reached inside her. Not that it ever would. She'd been stupid enough to check, too; to turn the water icy cold, and now she doubted it would ever thaw. What was left. Of her.

"Shit.." Even her voice sounded distant, though she turned off the water and pulled away the plasticy curtain: to see what had smashed, and why.

Will frowned at the splayed litter of shards, and her and her mother's toothbrushes; a tube of toothpaste had flown across the floor. It didn't make sense, really. Not with the glass forever pushed to the back of the large window-shelf, and not with the toothpaste which had previously fallen into the sink.. She was sure of it. And she-

"SHIT!" Everything came back and she crumpled, physically, with pain; heat radiating through her body so intensely; fatigue encasing her; adrenaline screaming through her veins; an intense fear; a blinding panic. Everything had returned to it's colour and form, and Will cursed as her body singed and Will could only wince - halfway from the bathtub - as she retreated her foor back in and pulled out a shard of thick glass from the near center arc of her foot; her teeth clenching as she cringed fearfully at the drizzle of blood that drooled and plopped onto the edge of the white, plastic tub; wondering if it would stain, and wondering if her mother would hear her - pulling her towel over her back and clutching it to her.

...

Lord Cedric seethed, glaring forcefully at a broken tear in a painting, and Elyon could almost feel his blood boiling as she stood; grateful at last to have found him, because there had been no assurity that he was alive, and she had locked up as many as she could. He was pacing; a jerk in his hand his only movement, but she could see him walking circles around his mind, and she so wondered his frustration. They had won.. Why didn't she feel like it, for even Phobos had smiled. "Cer-"

Elyon jolted. When suddenly he whirled and her eyes met his and he was only staring. Only staring. A quiver in his mouth; that jerk in his hand, he reminded her of those smoking videos that were played still fifty years at least from release. But he didn't smoke; it wasn't what she meant, but it was that look in his eyes; something Prince Phobos almost had: he was an addict. "C-"

"Don't say anything.." She didn't know his addiction; a fierceness in his voice that was unrecognizable as Cedric, and that look on his face. That look on his face. Frustration: an anger and a resentment, and a fragment of negation.. He was almost not Cedric. Furious; definitly. And she had to feel a little afraid, though not of him so much as for him..

"Cedri-" Elyon made a noise of startle, and then of pain when her back hit the icy cold metalic table that stood behind her; finding herself pushing hands against the chill, and pulling her feet from the floor to reckon more height - not in acceptance of his ravage, but merely an attempt of instinct: protecting her from the blow of him pushing more weight on her, though she found it fairly adversite when she dropped the support beneath her - his hands had reached for her waist and she'd flinched in surprise; the misfortune of him catching her rear as she fell to preferably hit the hard surface, and he conrinued to scower her mouth with his tounge..

She'd hit him. The noise almost echoed, and she felt something clench when he stared to her left; her hand still stinging from the blow, and his facade demeaniating and moldering, clearly realizing what he'd done and daring not to move because he'd have to face it. "I'm.. I can't apologise more, El- Princess, I'm truly-"

"Fine." She said it fast, and felt her colour increasing as he hung his head shamefullly, before pulling himself statured with a deep breath and turning away - stopping, momentarily, but he continued on; knowing his place to walk away; remembering his place beside her brother.. Elyon lifted her fingers, and barely brushed her throbbing lips, and stared at the man who walked away; wishing she hadn't shamed him, for his mistake, if only because she hadn't got the chance to tell him she was glad that he was okay.. "F-fine.."

...

"Silly girl.." Susan Vandom wrapped the white cotton material; winding it around her daughter's foot and smiling at the look on her face. Will had always mastered it; the expression that made her look far younger than she was; the curiosity embedded into her anxiety; her fear and pain giving in every few moments as she leaned a little forward to see if her leg was falling off yet. "Why did you get out?"

"Mom.." Susan smirked at the whimpering moan; Will squirming a little on the table where she sat - balled into a towel, yet to move from where Susan had involuntarily been forced to sit opposite of, to tend to the little girl she hadn't seen in a while: not the girl she drove to school that morning, and not the Will who'd scream at her, but the one who didn't realize she was pouting, and the one who didn't push as hard to get away. The little girl she liked the best of all her daughters. Will never honestly seemed to be playing baby. "I.. I cut my.."

"Yes, we got that far. You cut your foot, very good." Susan beamed as Will took too seriously her teasing; her shoulders rounding forward and her hair sliding in front of her face in shame, and Susan slid the foot and the pale leg from it's balance on the end of her knee; ignoring the pinkness, that seemed to refuse to calm after the heat of the shower. "C'mon, it's late Will.. Go to bed."

...

Caleb wish he hadn't gone to bed; the duvet having had been replaced with thinner layers because Will had soaked it through, and now he was left entirely freezing. He could put on a shirt, Caleb supposed, but he found that the bitter winter chills that were probably warmer than Meridian's had stilled him, and it wasn't as though he'd be sleeping anyway: his own words rattling through his mind, and a feirce rage of quiet feelings that he couldn't quite hold as he blew white mist into the night.

He'd forgotten; to switch the radiator on; to close the little window, and if it snowed, now in November, he would probably die of frost, though maybe not in Heatherfield. Another night at least.. He wish he'd asked for several, as Caleb knew he was no readier today than tomorrow, and he didn't want to read on in Phobos' book - he'd had a look and he knew he should be furious that Will had gone to him.. But, one of the times it had been him, and he wished he'd forced her with him to celebrate, rather than begging from Phobos what Caleb couldn't provide her in his state of anger.

And he didn't like reading it anyway; Phobos' mind was too structured, even for him, and Caleb found the similarities in words hard to read; blurring black against yellow parchment, as the stolen light made it difficult.. So he simply rolled over and singled out the books he didn't read - he only liked to look at the pictures of Hay Lin's stories, because he'd read a few and he was sure he could come up with better ones, when all of them seemed to be princesses who loved commoners, or commoners who found their prince.. He just liked the pictures, though he supposed he'd never admit it: his fingers glazing the pages as he smirked at the little fish-girl in the ocean... He'd met one of them once. He liked this one's red hair..

Okay, that was a little cute, but I'm doing the shock, because Caleb is a little boy really - if only younger when it comes to shock, because he doesn't really know how to handle himself - and he's almost resignating: abandoning the rebel stuff and distracting himself by becoming overly immersed in something as trivial as a children's story. Letting himself imagine it, because he doesn't want to think about reality - almost creating a safer world. It's quite common for it actually to happen to children, and adults: a sort of denial, if you will.