It's dark enough outside and light enough in, so that when Edward looks through the window pane, he doesn't see the hilly landscape pass them by, but instead finds himself staring at his own reflection.
There's a cut above his right eyebrow, a thin, shallow scratch that is barely visible. A bandage is tied around his head, and he could see, if he really wanted to, a wisp of red (iron, water, sodium, and there's more, but he's tired of thinking of everything in terms of elements and compounds) escaping through it from a deeper wound closer to his hairline. His arm aches with a phantom pain, and the nerves touching his metal limbs are alight with a tingling remembrance.
Flesh and bone and skin and blood, that is what he is
( and steel and copper wires and oil and rust, but still that is more than just a suit of armour )
and that is all that he is, because there are times he thinks that he has lost his soul.
All he has left is an all-consuming dream. It doesn't matter that the days trickle into weeks and the weeks into months and he couldn't separate the seconds from one another anymore. It doesn't matter that he wishes for the impossible.
All he wants is to go home.
