(Well, this was actually written first. But somehow after posting it here, I decided to rearrange the pieces.. I think it pretty much works whichever way I put them, and I'm happy that I managed to make it happen ^_^ This is a story told from five POVs, by people from different time periods. Some of the POVs are rather long - as you saw before - and some are really short - as you'll see later. As always, note that English is not my 1st language and all. Every comment and critique is welcomed!)
She stands in silence as he leaves, her breath turning to clouds in front of her lips, mist slowly crawling around her feet. She can feel the coldness, and freezing wind as it whispers its poems. The path in front of her is covered with snow, and frosty ornaments spread along its surface as if no one ever walked on it. And snowflakes, white and both enchanting and terrifying as they remind her of ashes, falling on her skin. Ashes threatening to burry a fallen city, to fall over the roofs of her and her friends' houses, and to hide forever the streets and parks she so much loves.
But she has no choice. She has to make the deal.
If not, everyone will die - well, everyone she cares about.
The hand on her shoulder is just slightly warmer than the air around, and she knows who it is without even giving him a glance.
"You did not need to come", she says, her voice softly breaking the silence of the night. Man next to her nods.
"Sure I did. You were seconds away from running after him", he says, his voice deeper but just as quiet as hers. She crosses her arms on her chest.
"I know I can't", she says without looking at him.
"You should know you mustn't", he replies.
None of them says another word as they walk back down the empty road.
He wakes up with a twitch, his skin cold as ice and his hair sticking out around his head like a bush. He gets up slowly, waiting for a moment for headache to pass, and then walks to the bathroom, his steps echoing in the empty hallway.
Water is hot, tiny drops seem to burn his skin, but he stays in the bath for almost half an hour. Than he changes to his daily clothes and rushes down the stairs to the dining room, his hair still wet.
His mother lifts her head up as he comes in - his father and brothers don't even give him a glance. He sits at his place, left to his father, with mother sitting and watching him from the other side.
"I dreamt of her again", he says, breaking the silence. His mother sighs. "Of my sister."
"You don't have a sister", says the youngest boy at the table, but the other hushes him.
"Have you taken your meds?", asks the mother.
"Of course", he says, shortly.
Of course not. He hasn't taken the meds ever since the first dream. It's the only thing still connecting him with his sister - and he will never let go of it. That he has promised, both to himself and to the memory of her.
He looks down at his hands, laying on the table next to the untouched breakfast: his pale skin, thin as paper, always cold and with visible blue veins under it. He suddenly gets up.
"Excuse me, I…"
"Sit!", hisses his father. "You are the heir of the house Alistair, for once act like one."
"I am acting like one, father", he replies calmly. "My fencing tutor is almost here, and I do need to get ready for him."
After all, he thinks as he leaves his family and heading to his room, I'll probably be dead before any of them.