Chimera Fields your hands can heal, your hands can bruise

While he lay against the field and the snow fell across him, he thought that surely he deserved to be buried in it.

Flakes touched his nose and melted there. Crystals on his lashes. His masked face salted with it, while he basked in the cold memories and dying desires. What he wanted had never mattered — that was true in his core, he knew this. Everything he'd tried to hold on to was like snow in his jaws; it melted away and left him numb, desperate for spring's thaw, which would never arrive.

And there, over the soft touch of snowflakes against the earth, was a voice that he knew. Mou blinked after hearing it, certain it wasn't real — and turned his head enough so that his one eye could see.

Vesper.

Mou sagged back, letting his head rest in the divot it had made. Was she here to let her hate be known? Was Blueberry not enough, he wondered.