springkink fic. [The Sun's Spinning, Shadow of the Colossus, Wander]
Title: The Sun's Spinning
Rating: PG
Warnings: None.
Word count: 1380 words
Summary: The sun is spinning at its zenith, and he doesn't know when this day will end. June 17 - Shadow of the Colossus, Wander: Reflection - He didn’t know what to think at this point.
He wakes in the sunshine, standing still in the middle of the land. He can't remember moving, can't remember anything but falling from a colossus, twisting in the air. But he's standing now, in the midst of the sun-covered land, sword unsheathed in his hand, Agro shying by his side. But he can't remember coming here, can't remember moving his feet (and they feel like so much lead, dragging him nearly to his knees). It feels like waking into a nightmare, and he feels cold inside, like he's half-frozen.
They sky is clear, but it feels like the sun is dull, fading through dust and fog. The air feels heavy, like a film that slides, damp and oily, over his skin. He swallows, air catching in his throat, and sheathes his sword with a slick click that sends Agro skittering. He wipes his hands, cloth rough against his palms, then stumbles to his knees, retches dryly. His throat burns, body shuddering, and then he spits, a taste bitter in his mouth, under and over his tongue.
"Agro," he says, and his voice breaks. He coughs, spits again, and says, "Agro."
Agro's reins slide over his shoulder, the ends of the leather trailing in the dust, and he grabs at them, hands fumbling. He drags himself upwards, and Agro's head butts against his chest. He presses his hands against Agro's head, then, leaning and clutching to the saddle's straps, pulls himself up into the saddle. Agro's steps send him swaying, and the world is a rush around him, dull yellows and dusty greens washed to gray. He closes his eyes to the spinning and curls his hands firmly in Agro's mane. He counts the steps of the slow pace, and feels the ground beneath them, Agro's body tensing when the ground turns rough, the walk slowing at the climbs of hills. He's lolled in the saddle, nearly to dreams, and he loses pieces of the world, the places Agro's hooves clatter on shell-rock, the places Agro bends long neck nearly to the ground.
When he wakes, Agro's still moving, a slow, restless walk, and he's falling from the saddle, slipping sideways. He reaches out, tries to grab ahold of the saddle, but his fingernails bend, tear backwards, break. He feels a cry in his throat, more animal than not, and when he hits the ground, he curls around his hands with a low sob. He presses his head to the ground, twists it against the dirt. The pain is sharp, continual, and it feels like the bones of his fingers are on fire. And like this, it's futile, all of it. He doesn't know what he's doing anymore, doesn't know how he's fixing anything. He screams against the earth, hands held to his chest, forehead pressed against the ground. Dirt coats his mouth, turns to clay on his tongue, and he screams because everything hurts, his body and his soul, and because Mono isn't moving, isn't breathing, and because he's nothing but a clay man, crumbling.
He screams until he's too tired to breathe, and then he rolls onto his side. Agro is yards away, head turned towards him, and he'd whistle, but his throat is raw, and his breath faint. After a few minutes, he pulls his hands away from his chest, and holds them in front of his face. He holds his breath as he opens his fists, and he groans. His hands are bloody, and his fingernails, what's left of them, are torn and bloody, hanging on by strips of skin and flesh. He closes his hands again, curling them carefully to his chest, and shuts his eyes.
He stumbles when he tries to stand, off-balance without the use of his hands. He holds steady on his knees, then leans back on his heels before throwing himself forward and upwards. He's bloody and bruised, but he can stand, mostly sure on his feet, and so he presses his hands against his sides, beneath his arms. He steps forward, hesitates, and then whistles for Agro. Agro moves closer with a slow trot, hesitant, and he whistles again. When Agro is by his side, he turns, and begins walking. The sun seems to lay motionless in the sky, at its constant zenith, and he doesn't know where the west, and sunset that never comes, should be.
The scraggly brush scratch at his legs, and the sandy dirt sinks beneath his feet. Agro plods on slowly beside him, and the pain in his hands dulls as he walks further. After time, and distance, the ground turns to stone, then to shell-rock again. Then it is dirt, plain dirt, and there's moisture, and the plants are a green that's not nearly as dusty as before. And past a stride of water-washed pebbles, there's a river, slow and wide; the same dull color as the sky.
He falls to his knees, the pebbles cutting into his skin. He holds his hands above the water, the cold, wet air catching on his palms, then thrusts his hands into the water, hissing. His hands feel like they're burning at the first touch of water to opened skin and flesh, and the water turns a cloudy red between his fingers. He stretches his fingers out, can't breathe when the skin tears more, blood fresh. After long minutes, though, his hands are turning dull, muscles slow and cold, and the pain is turning to a different pain. He lets the muscles in his fingers go lax, and when there's no new blood, and the water is running clear over his hands, he dunks his head into the river.
The water is freezing, floods his mouth and nose, and when he pulls his head out, he has to gasp for breath. His hair sticks to his cheeks, cold and wet, but he has no hand to push it out of his face, so he shakes his head madly, scatters ripples across the river with the water from his hair. When he looks down at the water, it's shattered, like cracked ice from the dead of winter. It clears by the moments, shows more by more of his face, and when he sees himself, he doesn't know who, or what, he is. He reaches to the surface of the water, then gingerly raises his hand to touch at his hair. His skin is pale, bruises beneath his eyes, and his lips are cracked, a thin line of a mouth. He licks his lips, tasting the iron of blood, and his mouth is twisted in the water’s reflection. He swallows down the taste of iron, and the grit in his throat, and leans back from the water.
The river-pebbles are unsteady beneath his feet, and the further he wades into the stream, the larger, and more unsteady, they grow. His hands are floating on the top of the water, caught by the current, and the water is catching at his legs, pulling at his clothing, trying to drag him downstream. When he’s near mid-stream, he feels his feet slip, slow and clumsy and as though his body isn’t his anymore. The water is cold when it closes over his head, and when he breaks out, mouth open for gasps, and arms spread to the side, the air is as cold, numbing to his skin. He’s cold, and lost, but the river is wide and slow, and the numbness, inside and out, is growing in the endless day, with the sun spinning overhead. He’s fallen thirteen times, tumbling through the air, and there are thirteen statues crumbled to dust, on either side of Mono’s altar, and to fall three more times, and break three more statues, seems an impossible number.
He lets the river drag him along, slow, steady current pulling his slow, unsteady body, and when it fetches him up on the bank, he rolls onto his side, arms pinned beneath him, cheek pressed against the mud. The sun is flitting through, more cold than warm on his skin, and the world is silent, but for the sound of Agro’s hooves on the pebbles. He takes a breath, feels it shudder through his lungs, and wonders when this day will end, and what he’ll be at the end of it.
Rating: PG
Warnings: None.
Word count: 1380 words
Summary: The sun is spinning at its zenith, and he doesn't know when this day will end. June 17 - Shadow of the Colossus, Wander: Reflection - He didn’t know what to think at this point.
He wakes in the sunshine, standing still in the middle of the land. He can't remember moving, can't remember anything but falling from a colossus, twisting in the air. But he's standing now, in the midst of the sun-covered land, sword unsheathed in his hand, Agro shying by his side. But he can't remember coming here, can't remember moving his feet (and they feel like so much lead, dragging him nearly to his knees). It feels like waking into a nightmare, and he feels cold inside, like he's half-frozen.
They sky is clear, but it feels like the sun is dull, fading through dust and fog. The air feels heavy, like a film that slides, damp and oily, over his skin. He swallows, air catching in his throat, and sheathes his sword with a slick click that sends Agro skittering. He wipes his hands, cloth rough against his palms, then stumbles to his knees, retches dryly. His throat burns, body shuddering, and then he spits, a taste bitter in his mouth, under and over his tongue.
"Agro," he says, and his voice breaks. He coughs, spits again, and says, "Agro."
Agro's reins slide over his shoulder, the ends of the leather trailing in the dust, and he grabs at them, hands fumbling. He drags himself upwards, and Agro's head butts against his chest. He presses his hands against Agro's head, then, leaning and clutching to the saddle's straps, pulls himself up into the saddle. Agro's steps send him swaying, and the world is a rush around him, dull yellows and dusty greens washed to gray. He closes his eyes to the spinning and curls his hands firmly in Agro's mane. He counts the steps of the slow pace, and feels the ground beneath them, Agro's body tensing when the ground turns rough, the walk slowing at the climbs of hills. He's lolled in the saddle, nearly to dreams, and he loses pieces of the world, the places Agro's hooves clatter on shell-rock, the places Agro bends long neck nearly to the ground.
When he wakes, Agro's still moving, a slow, restless walk, and he's falling from the saddle, slipping sideways. He reaches out, tries to grab ahold of the saddle, but his fingernails bend, tear backwards, break. He feels a cry in his throat, more animal than not, and when he hits the ground, he curls around his hands with a low sob. He presses his head to the ground, twists it against the dirt. The pain is sharp, continual, and it feels like the bones of his fingers are on fire. And like this, it's futile, all of it. He doesn't know what he's doing anymore, doesn't know how he's fixing anything. He screams against the earth, hands held to his chest, forehead pressed against the ground. Dirt coats his mouth, turns to clay on his tongue, and he screams because everything hurts, his body and his soul, and because Mono isn't moving, isn't breathing, and because he's nothing but a clay man, crumbling.
He screams until he's too tired to breathe, and then he rolls onto his side. Agro is yards away, head turned towards him, and he'd whistle, but his throat is raw, and his breath faint. After a few minutes, he pulls his hands away from his chest, and holds them in front of his face. He holds his breath as he opens his fists, and he groans. His hands are bloody, and his fingernails, what's left of them, are torn and bloody, hanging on by strips of skin and flesh. He closes his hands again, curling them carefully to his chest, and shuts his eyes.
He stumbles when he tries to stand, off-balance without the use of his hands. He holds steady on his knees, then leans back on his heels before throwing himself forward and upwards. He's bloody and bruised, but he can stand, mostly sure on his feet, and so he presses his hands against his sides, beneath his arms. He steps forward, hesitates, and then whistles for Agro. Agro moves closer with a slow trot, hesitant, and he whistles again. When Agro is by his side, he turns, and begins walking. The sun seems to lay motionless in the sky, at its constant zenith, and he doesn't know where the west, and sunset that never comes, should be.
The scraggly brush scratch at his legs, and the sandy dirt sinks beneath his feet. Agro plods on slowly beside him, and the pain in his hands dulls as he walks further. After time, and distance, the ground turns to stone, then to shell-rock again. Then it is dirt, plain dirt, and there's moisture, and the plants are a green that's not nearly as dusty as before. And past a stride of water-washed pebbles, there's a river, slow and wide; the same dull color as the sky.
He falls to his knees, the pebbles cutting into his skin. He holds his hands above the water, the cold, wet air catching on his palms, then thrusts his hands into the water, hissing. His hands feel like they're burning at the first touch of water to opened skin and flesh, and the water turns a cloudy red between his fingers. He stretches his fingers out, can't breathe when the skin tears more, blood fresh. After long minutes, though, his hands are turning dull, muscles slow and cold, and the pain is turning to a different pain. He lets the muscles in his fingers go lax, and when there's no new blood, and the water is running clear over his hands, he dunks his head into the river.
The water is freezing, floods his mouth and nose, and when he pulls his head out, he has to gasp for breath. His hair sticks to his cheeks, cold and wet, but he has no hand to push it out of his face, so he shakes his head madly, scatters ripples across the river with the water from his hair. When he looks down at the water, it's shattered, like cracked ice from the dead of winter. It clears by the moments, shows more by more of his face, and when he sees himself, he doesn't know who, or what, he is. He reaches to the surface of the water, then gingerly raises his hand to touch at his hair. His skin is pale, bruises beneath his eyes, and his lips are cracked, a thin line of a mouth. He licks his lips, tasting the iron of blood, and his mouth is twisted in the water’s reflection. He swallows down the taste of iron, and the grit in his throat, and leans back from the water.
The river-pebbles are unsteady beneath his feet, and the further he wades into the stream, the larger, and more unsteady, they grow. His hands are floating on the top of the water, caught by the current, and the water is catching at his legs, pulling at his clothing, trying to drag him downstream. When he’s near mid-stream, he feels his feet slip, slow and clumsy and as though his body isn’t his anymore. The water is cold when it closes over his head, and when he breaks out, mouth open for gasps, and arms spread to the side, the air is as cold, numbing to his skin. He’s cold, and lost, but the river is wide and slow, and the numbness, inside and out, is growing in the endless day, with the sun spinning overhead. He’s fallen thirteen times, tumbling through the air, and there are thirteen statues crumbled to dust, on either side of Mono’s altar, and to fall three more times, and break three more statues, seems an impossible number.
He lets the river drag him along, slow, steady current pulling his slow, unsteady body, and when it fetches him up on the bank, he rolls onto his side, arms pinned beneath him, cheek pressed against the mud. The sun is flitting through, more cold than warm on his skin, and the world is silent, but for the sound of Agro’s hooves on the pebbles. He takes a breath, feels it shudder through his lungs, and wonders when this day will end, and what he’ll be at the end of it.