Post by Shen Rui on Sept 29, 2007 17:20:15 GMT -5
Tired. What a trivial word. Shen could feel the ache in his back, at his neck, throbbing mercilessly to his temples. His lids were too heavy, unlike his hands which felt too weak. Yet, he was awake and watching a gold firelight dancing across the room's walls. Despite his apology and the heavy weight of guilt lifting off of him, he couldn't help but be tormented by where they were going. Japan. Having an alibi, like Prince Akihito, didn't stop the shiver of doubt.
As soon as they crossed sea and set foot on Japan's land, there would be issues. Like trading. Was their disguise going to work? Shen's eyes dropped to the stitching around the wrist, where the fabric met delicately. They would stand out sorely. Hell, he envisioned everyone in Japan to wear bizarre clothing like the Prince. Shen dropped his face into his palms, creating a second fold of darkness behind the protesting lids.
Everything was white, dismal, and gray. Electric pieces of cold brushed against his cheek, the white was snow, the dismal was death of soldiers and the gray was how the winter reflected Kamlong's hair. Naturally, in the bone-chilling scene there was an abundance of red. The serenity of the crimson dripped in miraculous patterns. Cloudy, no doubt, because he felt nothing. His palms were wet, had he even touched the pool of blood, trying to pour it back into the wound it so very leaked out of it?
Shen turned, his arms folded painfully at his sides and his head twisted in the opposite direction of the glowing candle. At least, when his eyes opened to see the shawl staring back at him hauntingly, his lids didn't ache. He fell asleep and his feet tingled, telling him they had fallen asleep with the way his torso bent uncomfortable into the bed. The room was rather warm, and his palms were wet -- not from blood or snow -- but from the adrenaline and scare the dream ensued. Using his elbows, he got up back into his seating position, attempting to rise in a stand.
Blood rushed back to his feet. How long was I sleeping? Who knew? Dreams could last seconds to hours.
As soon as they crossed sea and set foot on Japan's land, there would be issues. Like trading. Was their disguise going to work? Shen's eyes dropped to the stitching around the wrist, where the fabric met delicately. They would stand out sorely. Hell, he envisioned everyone in Japan to wear bizarre clothing like the Prince. Shen dropped his face into his palms, creating a second fold of darkness behind the protesting lids.
Everything was white, dismal, and gray. Electric pieces of cold brushed against his cheek, the white was snow, the dismal was death of soldiers and the gray was how the winter reflected Kamlong's hair. Naturally, in the bone-chilling scene there was an abundance of red. The serenity of the crimson dripped in miraculous patterns. Cloudy, no doubt, because he felt nothing. His palms were wet, had he even touched the pool of blood, trying to pour it back into the wound it so very leaked out of it?
Shen turned, his arms folded painfully at his sides and his head twisted in the opposite direction of the glowing candle. At least, when his eyes opened to see the shawl staring back at him hauntingly, his lids didn't ache. He fell asleep and his feet tingled, telling him they had fallen asleep with the way his torso bent uncomfortable into the bed. The room was rather warm, and his palms were wet -- not from blood or snow -- but from the adrenaline and scare the dream ensued. Using his elbows, he got up back into his seating position, attempting to rise in a stand.
Blood rushed back to his feet. How long was I sleeping? Who knew? Dreams could last seconds to hours.
