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Sharp, spider web cracking of skin and glass, berry toned blood.
All of it, is what it -he, they.- remembers.
Sharp. Cold. Cracking web of glass that is his very self.
Bruising berry and blood.
Dark, glass.
It's interesting, how memory works in this state of nonexistence. He dreams, and yet, he does not exist.
Phantom touch of swords and eyes.
...A lingering trail of lavender and berry jam hands.
Oh, how he misses his book reading berry, bruises and soft, lingering, burning hugs.
...
No. He does not remember his Violet berry, beyond the vaguest... Sense of more.
More colour, in this deep deep darkness of echoes and reflections.
The sent of lavender is home, and they fear that that they are far, far, far away from home.
Iron, metal. The sharp and stinging sent of blood.
He can no longer see the one he holds so close to his not beating heart in his mind, try as he might.
He is no longer amongst the living and breathing, after all.
The shadow of magic. tired, hurt, dead.
The once boy — The shadow of another boy who he loved a quarter of so, so dearly, is gone.
They hope to rest. He is gone, yet here in such...
A state.
The once shadow of four boys is in a state.
He exists, and yet he does not.
He is floating, they are sinking.
The spider web of glass cracks farther, splintering his form farther, like a brittle broken thing.
He is... tired. He is tired of this pain, of this deep, aching sorrow.
Oh, the boy begs, oh let it stop. Let the pain stop, Allow me rest, for I do not exist, for I am gone, allow me this one wish, will you not?
...The shade drifts off into nonexistence again. Lavender and berry lingering on his tongue.