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Are you cold?
You came dressed for something
warmer, armoured in your hatred, in your joy. Does it help against the
cold? Or does the wind blow
in anyway, through the scars,
the wounds of your civil war. But with the armistice, the seccession, you
stand alone, bleeding in too
many places to see.
Did it hurt?
You don't move, staring like a
statue. Would it change anything if you moved, acknowledged this dream
as your reality? You shake in
the stillness. Where is the hatred
that sustained you? Was it ripped away too? flowed out like the pool of
blood at your feet. You
barely stand as it is - did you
depend on the rest so much? Is denial an adequate crutch?
Are you angry?
Have you thought: he is where
I should be. He is free at last, in the eternal fires you need to scorch
you, warm you, harden you. And
he alone has these. Does it gall
you to know he was right? You aren't seeing anyone, let alone him, stranded
from your element. Does
it touch you at all? Or are you
truly unmade here?
What are you?
Half a soul is all-nothing here.
Why do you presume to hold form and shape, having been amputated? Where
could you go, but
crawling back to him, your shreds
of memory trailing behind, your hands bloodied. You won't do that, and
there is nowhere else.
Who do you think you are?
Did you think you measured up?
Did you think your paltry half-dozen deaths made you worthy of being? Did
you think you grew by
their deaths? Do you think now?
Or are you static memory, now, trapped in the Shadow, frozen where you
needed cauterizing heat.
You, a figment of a crazed imagination,
are nothing here, can become nothing here; do not pretend otherwise. Release
yourself, let
your memories be ripped from you,
let them bleed out like the blood from your wounds, leech out like the
warmth from your skin.
Even that is illusion here. Do
you understand? Stand. Just here, so - see? And when I strike, you will
shatter with the voice of
screams. I strike, and you will
turn to dust.
Do you agree?