August 7, 2014. Wind. For some reason this wanted to be about cold. I associate the two, apparently.
It was cold. Far colder than he remembered. But then again, he didn't really recall the temperature. He had other things preoccupying his mind at that point. He wasn't just standing still either, like he was now, looking over the edge of the cliff. No, he'd been dancing. A dance of beautiful death. He only knew that it had been cold because logic said so.
The wind was blowing. He remembered it was that day too, forceful enough to be a nuisance while they danced. It was the wind that made it harder to hear, blowing in his ears and stealing away the quiet words of an insanity that had once again become sane. It blew snow in his eyes and in his way. Not that it was the wind's fault for what happened. No, that blame lay elsewhere. But it was the wind that blew away his anguished howls and prevented them from being able to search.
His remaining apprentice was there beside him, a bouquet of flowers in hand. He unwrapped and then tossed them over the cliff. They both watched as the wind carried them away, loose petals giving the wind color. The lighter petals eventually joined their brethren as gravity won out over the wind.