He dreamed like a child, carefree and wild within the dream he holds. He dreamt like a demon, remembering the past he has left, to move on in his life. He dreamt of the filth, the things he had grappled day and nigh in order to feed upon the rotting garbage, to survive the filth of outcast...
He dreamt of warmth that is forgotten, warmth of a stranger. The warmth that he wants and needs, but was never able to truly obtain.
He dreamt of the weak, himself being one...
To watch the lucky rise in happiness, while the weak hunger in miserable oblivion.
Snow's life never was the one he had hoped. For so many years he had cursed the life he had, dragging his soul again and again to the bittermost area to survive, just to feed upon a measly scrap of bread, no matter how rotten it is.
He had seen much. He had lost much.
Happiness was not destined for Snow, but he refused to be killed by destiny. His childhood life in the weak had given him wisdom, but not the tools he need to acquire what he yearns dearly for.
He had confronted death in so many episodes, only to escape the alluring grip it takes to merely give in and die.
But when did Snow embark on such perilous journey, to prove himself worthy to obtain happiness even if he is a weak?
When did Snow learn to fight, to protect himself and kill others for the sake of defense?
When did Snow had a heart that he never knew?
Never.
He initially embarked on many journeys, to find a way to find peace within this world....
But he failed in many, and all of them were not the life he could ever settle in.
Not his world. Not the world where he could ever live in peace.
He initially learned how to fight, but only knew the reason why he fought when he killed someone from pure defense...
In all his years of protecting himself, he had killed someone just for the sake to survive....
He had a heart, but he couldn't find it anymore....lost in the throes of time, of shattered dreams with each life he touched, each life that moved on without him...
No heart to pick. No heart to hold.
What is Snow, but a beast within?
Is it?
Am I really a beast? A beast chained between man and human, twisted by the threads of fate to become what I am today? Am I the beast who Alicia can still recognize, or is there no salvation for the atrocities I have committed for the sake of protection..?
The wind feels nice today....
How long have I been dreaming?
How long have I seen nothing but darkness inside my shut eyelids?
How long have I questioned my motives?
How long have I laid here, in this cold, wet grass?
......
Snow opened his eyes. It is night as of now, and only the faint melodic tune of the crickets were heard across the river, chirping their life away. No one was around him, and figuratively, Snow didn't need to know who's left with him;
Only the corpses.
Hell...beauty has killed the beast, and I, the beast incarnate, has been killed by the arrow of hopeless need itself....
He raised his head, propping himself up under the stiff arms. His personal weapons were still there, and so were the remains of his clothings. It is cold, yet not cold enough to dull his mindless sense. It is silent, but not silent to drown him from the lucid pain.
There is no one here. Only the smell of rotten flesh filled the plains full of abundant death. His nose had gotten used to the smell, but he just couldn't get over the fact, his face twisted to a mask of horror by his own bloody hands.
He got up to his knees, standing with the wind blowing against the crusted blood behind his back, the sound of splashing water licking the shoreline in an intimate manner. The night was dark, but not enough to block the lunar moon from revealing the path that is left for Snow.
To move on.
He moved to the corpses, leaning down to pick up some items that might prove to be useful in the future; some cash, some extra clothings to change, some rations to eat....
The dead has no more use of the living.
Snow is still alive, and therefore, he must live on.
That is the only way he can do to repent for what his crimes were, no matter what the reason is. Man has only one life...it is up to the survivor to at least pay proper respect for the dead.
The dead cannot speak, but woe, it lives like a parasite within the victim of life.
He washed the blood off of his body, cleansing the wound he had recieved during the ordeal with Vothmori and his gang. He also grabbed some fresh clothings to wear around his nakedness; to hide and protect himself from the bitter cold and weather.
He ate some biscuits, still fresh within the bandit's pouches, eating some raw fish to keep himself alive and at least enough to sedate his hunger.
He took some cash from the bandits, to finance his journey, to donate to charity...
To give penance for the bandit's wrongdoings and commitments in act.
He had done all of these, and Snow stood there, sword in hand in the only pale retribution for regret. He stood there, looking at the mounting corpses that are rotting, left to nature's will....
He began to dig. To at least give them the respect for eternal peace, be it in heaven or hell.
He began to move.
To move on with the journey that is destined to him.
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Nightsnow
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- 夜雪 -
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