Arctic Nights [Prologue]
anonymous
October 24 2009, 03:47:39 UTC
It was chilly.
No, it was beyond chilly.
Shivers ran up and down his spine, goosebumps erupted on his skin, his fingers and toes were numb. To say that Russia was foreign to these feelings was to lie, but tonight, the familiar signs of an oncoming winter storm felt wrong.
Strangely enough, Russia didn't care.
Even though his body begged for warmth, pleaded for the unnatural cold to go away, Russia didn't budge to turn the heat up or throw on extra layers of clothes or to even wrap his blankets tighter around himself. Violet eyes were half-lidded and breaths were shallow; inhaling sent ice into his lungs and exhaling released fiery heat. It hurt too much to move, therefore Russia didn't.
General Winter is unhappy tonight.
He was tired and wanted to sleep, but he was too transfixed at the full moon that peeked through the thick dark clouds. Earlier that evening, the dark curtains were drawn in all the windows, just like how Russia did every night, but now they were pulled aside and carefully tied with gold rope. Russia did not arouse any time in the last several hours to do so.
His footsteps weren't heard, but they were definitely felt. Every step sent the room temperature plummeting even lower, made Russia's body feel more frozen and numb. His heartbeat was still the same, though, still thumped its steady rhythm, despite the ice that crawled through his trembling lips.
There was no shadow, but the billowing figure towered over the bed and Russia's eyes finally shifted their attention.
White skin, grey hair, silver eyes. If Russia could greet him, he would do so with a submissive smile, but it felt like his body's functions ceased to work, all except for his beating heart.
Scarred fingers gently caressed Russia's round face, traced the outline of his jaw, brushed his cheeks, drew lines on his eyelashes. Pale blond hair was toyed with then brushed aside; broken, bleeding chapped lips pressed a soft kiss on his forehead. Those lips traveled down his temple, across his cheeks, and breathed snow on his ears.
My boy...
Russia was a child, treading across barren tundras and towering glaciers. Russia was an old man, his spirit floating above frozen lakes and rivers. Russia no longer existed.
*
writer!anon is gonna twist up the request just an itty bit 8D dunno when the next part will be up, anon has other fills to do harharhar >.>
No, it was beyond chilly.
Shivers ran up and down his spine, goosebumps erupted on his skin, his fingers and toes were numb. To say that Russia was foreign to these feelings was to lie, but tonight, the familiar signs of an oncoming winter storm felt wrong.
Strangely enough, Russia didn't care.
Even though his body begged for warmth, pleaded for the unnatural cold to go away, Russia didn't budge to turn the heat up or throw on extra layers of clothes or to even wrap his blankets tighter around himself. Violet eyes were half-lidded and breaths were shallow; inhaling sent ice into his lungs and exhaling released fiery heat. It hurt too much to move, therefore Russia didn't.
General Winter is unhappy tonight.
He was tired and wanted to sleep, but he was too transfixed at the full moon that peeked through the thick dark clouds. Earlier that evening, the dark curtains were drawn in all the windows, just like how Russia did every night, but now they were pulled aside and carefully tied with gold rope. Russia did not arouse any time in the last several hours to do so.
His footsteps weren't heard, but they were definitely felt. Every step sent the room temperature plummeting even lower, made Russia's body feel more frozen and numb. His heartbeat was still the same, though, still thumped its steady rhythm, despite the ice that crawled through his trembling lips.
There was no shadow, but the billowing figure towered over the bed and Russia's eyes finally shifted their attention.
White skin, grey hair, silver eyes. If Russia could greet him, he would do so with a submissive smile, but it felt like his body's functions ceased to work, all except for his beating heart.
Scarred fingers gently caressed Russia's round face, traced the outline of his jaw, brushed his cheeks, drew lines on his eyelashes. Pale blond hair was toyed with then brushed aside; broken, bleeding chapped lips pressed a soft kiss on his forehead. Those lips traveled down his temple, across his cheeks, and breathed snow on his ears.
My boy...
Russia was a child, treading across barren tundras and towering glaciers. Russia was an old man, his spirit floating above frozen lakes and rivers. Russia no longer existed.
*
writer!anon is gonna twist up the request just an itty bit 8D dunno when the next part will be up, anon has other fills to do harharhar >.>
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