Disclaimer: No, no, we established this in the promo- Dharin is Maerad's, even if she doesn't know it, not mine. Though I can wish, can't I?
Notes: Although I still can't promise a steady update rate, I'm going to go ahead and start this fic- what can I say? I was inspired. This piece is kind of a second promo or intro to what's to come, but I think it sets the mood well, so I'm including it as a chapter of its own to begin the various layers. Also, since Dharin is somewhat undeveloped in the book, I will be giving him his own thoughts and personality, concealed in the scenes of the book since we meet him through Maerad.
Just… nothing.
In the epics, they make death out to be something big, something dramatic, something… well, something at least. Darkness or light, hallucinations or flashbacks, judgment or redemption…something!
But me, I get the truth: nothing.
I blink and reawaken; or perhaps I had never fallen asleep, though I most certainly had fallen. Unlike the heroes, no memory loss blinds me, no unbearable pain strikes me
Appropriate, since I'll never be a hero…
I know without searching that I'm dead. And I believe it.
By the sky, time has elapsed; it's shadowed, yet pure white with dribbles of scarlet…
Blood. Did I have to ask whose?
So I'm staring at the ground, my face buried in the constant snow. Unsurprisingly- to me, atleast- I can scarcely feel the flakes that should burn against my cheeks; in fact, I feel nothing at all, nothing, and it isn't numbness- at least, not from the cold.
I know that I can move, and that I shouldn't be able to. But I don't want to. It isn't as if I want to stay with my head in buried in the snow like a camel in the desert either, but it's already been established that I'm never getting anything I want anyway. So, what could it hurt?
Oh, how I wanted it too…
To feel pain- the burning freeze, the bitter sting, the empty numbness- anything! I'd lie in the snow forever just to feel anything again, even pain- especially pain. To feel human.
But, if I wasn't human- what was I?
At least the epics got one thing right: time is meaningless. I can't feel, so how can I possibly sense the passage of time? The change in temperature, the crispness of the air, the longing for rest- all senses are closed to me. It's as if I've been trapped in time, which, perhaps, I am. I could lay here forever but for one boon- or curse- granted to me, the one piece to remind me who I am… no, had been. And what I might be.
Memory…
Those last moments, with my senses overloaded… now that I stop dwelling the fact that I'm dead, reawakening the mere memory of those fleeting moments floods recycled emotion through my vacant body, urging me to do… something, anything to counter the nothing.
Don't be afraid…
I am.
I'm afraid.
And suddenly, exuberant. Exuberant in my silent, detached way, simply content to have felt something. That's enough to push myself up.
It will always have to be.
Because it's already apparent: once you die, life really starts to suck.
I know- short. But people are always telling me that long isn't necessarily better, and in this case, I think they're right. Don't worry, though, it won't always or even often be the case. Still, I'd
really appreciate inspiration *coughs, "reviews"*