Disclaimer: I take no credit whatsoever for any element of these pieces pertaining to Beyblade: including characters, setting, etc, etc… Everything belongs, and rightfully so, to its creator – Aoki Takao.

Carve an Idol Out of Ice

By Dixon Oriole

The woman lied to me. "Take me with you and you'll win," she said, all breathy whispers and ethereal blue light. She was the full moon reflecting off of the untouched frost. She was the burn of extreme cold and the ache of snow blindness. All of it at once, and limitless, ageless, enigmatic; she's always refusing to tell me her name. She was agonizingly beautiful, and I had to believe her. I don't know why she interfered. Maybe if I hadn't taken her, I really would have won… but you don't understand. She's not the sort of woman you deny, or even know how to deny. You don't think about anything when she's there.

She must have frozen my brain, because I wanted to kiss her feet or bow or… and I never feel that way. I've been a subordinate, a soldier, an attack-dog for his master, a servant, a weapon to be used, lab rat, prisoner – I've had my moments where I wouldn't think, wouldn't question. But it was never like it is with her. With her, I would have thrown myself onto the ground so that she wouldn't have to walk on it. I don't know if it was love; I don't know what love is. I only know that she's had more power over me than anybody's ever had, even at my weakest, most manipulated moments. Everything was for her. My body, mind, soul. She didn't even let me keep my soul…

The bitch lied to me! She stood there, on the ice, frightening the fearless, endless shadows away, and stared right into my eyes with her own blank, hideous, gorgeous ones. She lied to my face. I don't remember if she was very tall, just that she looked down at me, and when she looked, I couldn't help but look back. She offered me her hand and though some part of me didn't want to touch her, I took it anyhow, helpless to argue. I kissed that damn hand more gently than I've ever done anything, and my breath immediately turned white as my veins ran with ice. She froze me alive, and I think she did it for fun.

I didn't care. I was perfectly content in staring. The same part of me that didn't want to touch her in the first place said something about God. I've always had a low opinion of God, perhaps because of the skewed image I've had beaten into my head since childhood. I've always been very protective of my soul, and would prefer not to give it to anybody. First God takes it, and then her? I was annoyed with them both. She was no goddess, God was no god. I wasn't going to let them outrank me so badly, stuck in this mortal coil… But then, sometimes I don't think I'm very human. Sometimes I'm not so afraid of God. But it seems laughable not to be afraid of her.

I hated her for being better than me, yet was in love with her – I don't know what love is, but we were hand-in-hand and she'd told me I had blue eyes again, close to the real thing. That's when I knew it was a dream; I haven't had blue eyes for a very long time. I didn't tell her I knew though; I didn't want to risk losing her. I asked what real blue looked like, and she smiled sadly and said almost like my eyes. I knew she was lying because they're this sickening dusty violet color now. Whatever did that to me, I really hated it just then – it sounded as though she liked blue. I told you, it was all for her. I would have willed my eyes to change color if I'd thought she'd be a little happier. She's always been so sad.

And I've always been freezing cold. I assume that's why she came. Perhaps I left the window open by accident and she climbed in from the Siberian snow – though she's even better than the snow. She's whiter and softer and more inconvenient. I assume she came to me because we're almost kindred spirits; I didn't make myself this way, it just happened. I suppose I could blame her presence on circumstance… all the years I spent running chill water slowly over my heart and exposing it to the harshest winters I could find, building layer upon layer of ice. I suppose I could blame her presence on myself. But I don't.

She didn't have to interfere. I didn't ask for her to show up and give me a choice that wasn't really a choice: take her or leave her. What should I have done? We stood there, silent, in the middle of my usual dreary dreaming since interrupted and transformed down to the last detail, and I couldn't have chosen anything else. Of course I'd take her with me… Wolborg? She looked at me a second and then shook her head, long, dark hair swaying in a breeze I couldn't feel. My feelings had been dramatically numbed by then – generally my subconscious lets them run wild because they have to be closely regulated and stifled in the waking world. I imagine that's why I have blue eyes in my dreams.

Eventually I looked back on that moment and was wholly suspicious. She's still refusing to tell me her name, and Wolborg's was the first in my head… Besides the fact that my sacred – my abomination of a spirit is a wolf, the two of them have undeniable similarities. She's been lying to me; she could very well be another beast and just not want to admit it. I've never pretended to know why sacred spirits do anything. Wolborg, for example, is at least as psychotic as I am. He's never lied to me… I suppose the honesty factor rules him out as a possibility, then. I know I shouldn't wonder what she is. Questioning divine beings shows a lack of faith. I was always questioning God – it drove lots of people up the wall… before. It's a bad habit I've yet to break.

I wish I wasn't so prone to believing people when they whisper. Still, I couldn't help it; I was only dreaming, but I gave her my soul all the same. She has such a wane, sympathetic smile – It pisses me off. Giving yourself isn't such a small gift, is it? And what did I get in exchange? Nothing. Because she lied. I wish she'd just leave. "Take me with you and you'll win…" Well I took her, what next? Novae Rog. That bitch. A flawed attack for a flawed fighter. I was supposed to have been perfect. She was perfect, she could have helped me – but she tricked me. She did it for fun, like freezing me alive. She's cruel or… or maybe just harsh. I don't know what she is.

But I took her, and now she's with me. And she won't leave. And she won't be happier. She's sad, and it makes me sad. I feel unable to do anything and hate that I want to do something. I hate that I have to consider her when I am not considerate. I asked Wolborg what she was and she overheard. She closed her colorless eyes like she'd been hurt – I wonder if her eyes were once real blue? – and I was more sorry than I've ever been. Wolborg laughed and was about to answer but I stopped him. I said I didn't want to know and never to tell me. And then I kissed her hand. Damn that wolf for obeying orders… he refuses to say a word. And I want to know what in the hell she is and what she's doing to me.

All I got is Novae Rog and an icicle through my heart. I'm lying on this bed, nearly awake, concentrating on the deathly cold air circulating in through the wide windows, flapping in the draperies, the weightless touch of her fingers as she strokes my hair, and Wolborg's arctic breath on my hand. I don't know how long I've been locked in here. Since I got angry she'd lied, probably. Snow's piled up inside the room, just past the windows and where it blew against the bed. The sky that I can see outside is dull, light gray. My lips are probably blue and my skin even more bloodless looking than normal… She casts an azure glow and everything pales when compared to her vibrance. I might very well be dying. I wonder if she'll finally leave.

My head is on her lap; her furred robe is spread around us, offering no protection whatsoever from the polar atmosphere, and her dusky locks, spilling silkily from the crown atop her brow brush against my cheek. She enjoys playing with my hair whenever I'm especially annoyed with her, and though I know it's all with devious intent, trapping me here – she still looks so horribly sad. And I still want to make her feel better. I can't help her. I can't even move. Only my wrist twists tiredly as I reach to pat Wolborg atop his great silvery head where he's sprawled on the floor next to us. I wish he'd just chase her off somewhere… I'm so tired of being in love.

I'll ask her what color my eyes are now, but she's not going to say anything.

None of us are saying anything, and even now the bitch is lying to me.

Author's Notes: Wow, this was spur of the moment. I'm supposed to be outlining a long chapter for AP US History that's going to take me several hours to do. And studying for a Chemistry test. And doing math homework. Instead, I wrote a… a thing. I'm not at all sorry. It was fun, though I don't know what I was thinking. All my favorite stuff comes from me not knowing what I'm thinking… or something.

Anyhow, so, how about that chick in dear Tala's Novae Rog attack? Yeaaah. Augh! Is this the first thing I've written about dear Tala? Oh no… Damn. I'll make it up to all of you someday. Tala deserves much better than a pointless vignette.