Barrow Fields i'll keep my eyes fixed on the sun

@Iliksis staying vague again, dated for tomorrow

The air is like a burning vice, scorching every part of him, leaving nothing untouched. He is left without any sense of body or being, reduced to a mass of stinging aching misery, a battered toy soldier wound up and set to march along the coast without direction or purpose. It hurts, it hurts. But he doesn't feel a thing.
His captor, his tormentor, his brutal two-night-god is nowhere in sight, but he can still feel him. Around him, on him, embedded into his flesh and running through his veins. His legs stop moving suddenly and tremble fiercely, and he falls, he falls, he falls forever. But no — he meets the snow gracelessly an instant later, limbs tensing and flexing in automatic response to the coldness, and then goes still. His eyes fix on the dull blue sky, not truly seeing, with only his own heartbeat and the distant crashing waves for company.