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Hello, and happy December!
Now that the weather is truly cold here where I live, I thought it'd be the perfect time to post this triple drabble I regard as one of my personal favorite pieces I've ever written, even to this day. I believe I alluded to wanting to post it here at some point, so here it is for your reading pleasure. I hope you like it!
Summary: The irony is sharper than the wind that lashes his skin: Silver, standing atop Mt. Silver, yet without the renown those before him had garnered.
Content Warnings: None
Read the fic on AO3 here
Now that the weather is truly cold here where I live, I thought it'd be the perfect time to post this triple drabble I regard as one of my personal favorite pieces I've ever written, even to this day. I believe I alluded to wanting to post it here at some point, so here it is for your reading pleasure. I hope you like it!
Summary: The irony is sharper than the wind that lashes his skin: Silver, standing atop Mt. Silver, yet without the renown those before him had garnered.
Content Warnings: None
Read the fic on AO3 here
The irony is sharper than the wind that lashes his skin: Silver, standing atop Mt. Silver, yet without the renown those before him had garnered. This mountain bears its weight in legend not through him, but through the greats who had clashed here: Red and Ethan, their names now etched into the world's collective memory. Silver himself had not borne witness to that storied battle; not even his shadow cast across this peak in the light of their glory. Instead, he finds himself here, seeking not triumph but something else—a reprieve as unforgiving as the rocks beneath him.
Inhaling deeply, he savors the brittle purity of the January air, carrying the metallic tang of iron and ice, so frigid it seems to sear his throat. The cliffs below sprawl outward in solemn strata, shrouded in the somber sheen of a slate-gray, sepulchral winter. Stands of skeletal pines, stripped to their trunks, rise along the slopes in ghostly congregations, stubbornly rooted in defiance of the altitude. Here, high above the stir of battles and the sightlines of the world, he has found a sacred place: a dominion still as granite, where renown holds no sway, and solitude reigns in silent absolution.
The sky, a wash of umber fading into blanched alabaster, arches above, giving no quarter to warmth or softness. Nothing here remembers him, and yet, there is a steadiness in that anonymity, a constancy that defies anyone's acclaim. This place belongs to no one, even as it has accepted him.
Eyes half-closed, Silver allows himself to sink into this severity. If any battle"mark should remain, it will be his alone, a fleeting, solitary imprint in a terrain that absorbs everything without memory or reverence, bound to him as much as he is to that which bears his name.
Inhaling deeply, he savors the brittle purity of the January air, carrying the metallic tang of iron and ice, so frigid it seems to sear his throat. The cliffs below sprawl outward in solemn strata, shrouded in the somber sheen of a slate-gray, sepulchral winter. Stands of skeletal pines, stripped to their trunks, rise along the slopes in ghostly congregations, stubbornly rooted in defiance of the altitude. Here, high above the stir of battles and the sightlines of the world, he has found a sacred place: a dominion still as granite, where renown holds no sway, and solitude reigns in silent absolution.
The sky, a wash of umber fading into blanched alabaster, arches above, giving no quarter to warmth or softness. Nothing here remembers him, and yet, there is a steadiness in that anonymity, a constancy that defies anyone's acclaim. This place belongs to no one, even as it has accepted him.
Eyes half-closed, Silver allows himself to sink into this severity. If any battle"mark should remain, it will be his alone, a fleeting, solitary imprint in a terrain that absorbs everything without memory or reverence, bound to him as much as he is to that which bears his name.
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