how do I learn my dreams to mold, to lay them bare in the morning cold?
They have, impossibly, fallen into some sort of normalcy—normalcy for them. It is a beautiful thing. More beautiful than he could have ever dreamt about. More beautiful than he could have ever hoped for. But there is always a fear that accompanies it because he, more than anyone perhaps, knows that such things are not meant to last. He had see his parent’s normalcy shatter into a million pieces. Had seen the same for his sister. Had felt the same very tension snap in his life, leave him broken and bent.
So he relishes each and every moment, but he does not trust it.
He takes his time waking each morning, as though frightened that when he opens his eyes that it will all be gone. That he will have dreamt such a thing—such peace. That night has not come back to claim them. That some poster had not found his family, leaving him defenseless to protect them. It makes him hate his crooked, bent legs even more than before and when he stumbles as he walks, he finds that it is difficult to not cry. Difficult to not break down and weep for the weakness that he thrusts upon them.
And today is much the same.
When he wakes, it is to the feel of her nose against him, and he murmurs under his breath. Just a few more minutes, he thinks, cherishing that warmth of her—that rough brush of bark against him. If it feels different, if she even smells different, he does not notice. But she insists and he finally relents, cracking his silver eyes open and catching the sight of the animals in the distance. “What—“ he starts but the rest of the words don’t come as consciousness floods him. He shifts and draws himself upward, knees still tucked underneath him, but his body more alert. His face is a mask of concern and wonder, the two warring against one another as he takes in the sight of their surroundings, peaceful and yet strange.
“I—I don’t think so,” he manages, dragging his eyes away from them to look at her.
And when he sees her, his breath catches in his throat.
“Linnea,” his voice is hoarse, the wonder washing everything away.
“I think it’s you.”
nikolaus
if they’re still out there then the chasm grows
( for all you know, for all you’ve known )