Original Work: The Aria of Snow
Title: The Aria of Snow
Author: woodra
Rating: PG-13 to mild R depending on an individual
Disclaimer: Mine, all mine, with references to my other original works.
Author Notes: Dedicated to satinbluejeans as a birthday gift. She, who is gentle as the soft breeze on a heated day, she lives her life as an ode to humanity. My complete opposite, she leaves me in awe as to how much kindness there can be shed upon the filthy mortals. Happy Birthday, Shan!
A dark blot of shadow lies down on the virginally white snow as your feet make the first step. (It's "Coldrex" time, imagine, it's "Coldrex" time, as I sit in the darkness of the room, fevered, brain-cells frenzied.) You walk on and on, the thin crust of rime crunching with every onward movement. Creating a universe, aren't you? Making maps, blazing a trail for future followers.
Several hundreds of years later they will remember you were the founder of the City of Yellow Roses.
You handled five miles of walking in the white Nothing, leaving a path behind you. The sun is at the zenith already, shining down upon your figure mercilessly. It doesn't make you cringe nor falter - you are the founder of the City of Yellow Roses. (Loins in hurt, neck devoured, I envy you, oh I envy you!) Can you feel the biting wind caressing your cheeks, chiselled of ice, rouged with emotion? It is tossling about your fire of hair, such a battle, pity to miss - go find a mirror pond and look at it, mesmerized and overwhelmed.
Your shadow moving clockwise, it's at your left side now, grimacing at the cold of the Nothing latitude. (Positioned in the lower right of the screen, you are a perfect target for a professional archer.) The sky is a deep blue, almost purple in this altitude, and if you look close enough - you can see the spectral images of stars. You continue onward, smiling, thinking your mystical thoughts. How much is seven times seventeen? It is the answer to the ever-lasting question of what is the sum of Emotion.
"Silence," you hear the rustling whisper of an Ice Lady, as it pans you from left to right. "Silence is where my sadness haunts me best," she says. The lady sighs, it's sound echoed thousand times - sigh... sigh... sighing siren. She flicks her hair, in the sky above you, and disintegrates into the deep blue. (The sanctum sanctorum of my position is in the immovability of my wrist as I stretch the bow.) She was the one you thought you once saw in the Nowhere place, graceful, longing, daunting in her killing spree. Only once was she tamed, once, by you in the land, where no one else resides. There was a tea house with semi-transparent cardboard walls and mats on the floor. Ascetic at best, minimalist at worst, it was only decorated with a single dark yellow petal of a rose in the farthest corner. She worshipped it, you smiled, until once the scowl of a storm destroyed it. Then she died.
Heart wrenched from the memories, you finally notice the sun is half of the halfway to the vast horizon. You shake your head and start walking faster, almost dancing on the way. You jump lightly from one island of snow to another, in between which trickles of frozen water run unnoticed in their slow motion mode. (My fingers caress the feathers on the arrow with a steely arrow-head, so sharp you won't notice it.) Silky stripes of your hair floating behind, you are the nymph of gentle fire, sad and never-smiling. You used to smile a lot, where are the shiny glimpses of the otherworldly light now? You don't know, you don't know. Continue onward, for a striker is ready to come after your anima.
Why did she die? The rose petal, petal of love, but mostly sadness. Once you took it in your hands, while she was gone, and you saw it's root was covered with blots of red, barely visible, like blots of blood. She was back the second you touched it and scowled, unnerved, that you might have noticed them. You never told her you did.
In one last step you will be there. The great snowy steppes will never end, but your journey ends here. You hear the howling of wolves somewhere to the left from you and you smile, finally, one last smile. You look behind and you see yellow rose bushes sprouting everywhere you stepped. Your feet clad in flowery sandals make the last onward motion and you fall... and fall... and fall eternally, the feather light fluff of the snow preparing the bed you will never want to leave. The soft curls of your fiery hair on the virginal snow kindle the hearth of life. (And now is the time when I take you to me.)
It has been aeons now that you've been lying there. Your gaze is fixed on the advancing muzzle of a dark grey wolf and its inhumane yellows of eyes. It grits its sharp teeth, padding softly, each step of his a springy readiness to strike. You watch it with dispassionate interest, as it reaches you at last and nuzzles against your pale arm. The smell of your body is delicious - you smell of spring and life and oranges. The wolf falls in love with you and licks your arm, his yellow gaze still bearing no human emotion. When did the sun leave the firmament? It was now filled with stars, diamonds and rubies, flaring out and dying, new worlds, excitement in the air. You look back at the grey wolf and smile. It grits its teeth again and bites into your neck intimately. (The elegant body of my arrow whistles past your ear and nails the beast down.)
You die, bleeding profusely, on the snow in the dark of the night, the stars your only companions. It is a beautiful sight and I smile contentedly. I was never a professional archer. And now you are on your way back to the tea house with semi-transparent cardboard walls and mats on the floor, where the Ice Lady awaits, sad in her loneliness, a single dark yellow petal rose - her lips.
Author: woodra
Rating: PG-13 to mild R depending on an individual
Disclaimer: Mine, all mine, with references to my other original works.
Author Notes: Dedicated to satinbluejeans as a birthday gift. She, who is gentle as the soft breeze on a heated day, she lives her life as an ode to humanity. My complete opposite, she leaves me in awe as to how much kindness there can be shed upon the filthy mortals. Happy Birthday, Shan!
A dark blot of shadow lies down on the virginally white snow as your feet make the first step. (It's "Coldrex" time, imagine, it's "Coldrex" time, as I sit in the darkness of the room, fevered, brain-cells frenzied.) You walk on and on, the thin crust of rime crunching with every onward movement. Creating a universe, aren't you? Making maps, blazing a trail for future followers.
Several hundreds of years later they will remember you were the founder of the City of Yellow Roses.
You handled five miles of walking in the white Nothing, leaving a path behind you. The sun is at the zenith already, shining down upon your figure mercilessly. It doesn't make you cringe nor falter - you are the founder of the City of Yellow Roses. (Loins in hurt, neck devoured, I envy you, oh I envy you!) Can you feel the biting wind caressing your cheeks, chiselled of ice, rouged with emotion? It is tossling about your fire of hair, such a battle, pity to miss - go find a mirror pond and look at it, mesmerized and overwhelmed.
Your shadow moving clockwise, it's at your left side now, grimacing at the cold of the Nothing latitude. (Positioned in the lower right of the screen, you are a perfect target for a professional archer.) The sky is a deep blue, almost purple in this altitude, and if you look close enough - you can see the spectral images of stars. You continue onward, smiling, thinking your mystical thoughts. How much is seven times seventeen? It is the answer to the ever-lasting question of what is the sum of Emotion.
"Silence," you hear the rustling whisper of an Ice Lady, as it pans you from left to right. "Silence is where my sadness haunts me best," she says. The lady sighs, it's sound echoed thousand times - sigh... sigh... sighing siren. She flicks her hair, in the sky above you, and disintegrates into the deep blue. (The sanctum sanctorum of my position is in the immovability of my wrist as I stretch the bow.) She was the one you thought you once saw in the Nowhere place, graceful, longing, daunting in her killing spree. Only once was she tamed, once, by you in the land, where no one else resides. There was a tea house with semi-transparent cardboard walls and mats on the floor. Ascetic at best, minimalist at worst, it was only decorated with a single dark yellow petal of a rose in the farthest corner. She worshipped it, you smiled, until once the scowl of a storm destroyed it. Then she died.
Heart wrenched from the memories, you finally notice the sun is half of the halfway to the vast horizon. You shake your head and start walking faster, almost dancing on the way. You jump lightly from one island of snow to another, in between which trickles of frozen water run unnoticed in their slow motion mode. (My fingers caress the feathers on the arrow with a steely arrow-head, so sharp you won't notice it.) Silky stripes of your hair floating behind, you are the nymph of gentle fire, sad and never-smiling. You used to smile a lot, where are the shiny glimpses of the otherworldly light now? You don't know, you don't know. Continue onward, for a striker is ready to come after your anima.
Why did she die? The rose petal, petal of love, but mostly sadness. Once you took it in your hands, while she was gone, and you saw it's root was covered with blots of red, barely visible, like blots of blood. She was back the second you touched it and scowled, unnerved, that you might have noticed them. You never told her you did.
In one last step you will be there. The great snowy steppes will never end, but your journey ends here. You hear the howling of wolves somewhere to the left from you and you smile, finally, one last smile. You look behind and you see yellow rose bushes sprouting everywhere you stepped. Your feet clad in flowery sandals make the last onward motion and you fall... and fall... and fall eternally, the feather light fluff of the snow preparing the bed you will never want to leave. The soft curls of your fiery hair on the virginal snow kindle the hearth of life. (And now is the time when I take you to me.)
It has been aeons now that you've been lying there. Your gaze is fixed on the advancing muzzle of a dark grey wolf and its inhumane yellows of eyes. It grits its sharp teeth, padding softly, each step of his a springy readiness to strike. You watch it with dispassionate interest, as it reaches you at last and nuzzles against your pale arm. The smell of your body is delicious - you smell of spring and life and oranges. The wolf falls in love with you and licks your arm, his yellow gaze still bearing no human emotion. When did the sun leave the firmament? It was now filled with stars, diamonds and rubies, flaring out and dying, new worlds, excitement in the air. You look back at the grey wolf and smile. It grits its teeth again and bites into your neck intimately. (The elegant body of my arrow whistles past your ear and nails the beast down.)
You die, bleeding profusely, on the snow in the dark of the night, the stars your only companions. It is a beautiful sight and I smile contentedly. I was never a professional archer. And now you are on your way back to the tea house with semi-transparent cardboard walls and mats on the floor, where the Ice Lady awaits, sad in her loneliness, a single dark yellow petal rose - her lips.