7. Snow Falling on Corpses
He was one. Often times she would swear it as he sat in the command chair or in his quarters. His eyes half-lidded in his slouch, arms heavy upon the rests, fingers slightly curled from limp hands. Occasionally one would loosely clasp an amber-filled glass. And other times, his cane. The times where the glass accompanied him were most synonymous with the state of non-living. Ice would melt in the deeply golden pond, drawing warmth from fingertips she was hard pressed to believe they had for as long as he'd gone without even a single blink. Sometimes, sometimes she would leave the room with him unchanged and sometimes he would break from the spell on his own. But even if the body moved the eyes were never alive.