Kyrie was down on the snow as gentle snowflakes fell from the skies, descending upon his body. His eyes were tired, and his lungs struggled to catch the breath in his throat, throbbing in what felt like an eternity of pain.
At long last, it subsided, just enough—barely enough to bring any semblance of consciousness and rationality back to his mind, with traces of orange skies behind the clouds.
The orange, filtered by grey, vanished before it touched the ground. The skies mocked him below with the promise of warmth that will never come, a promise of hot and generous days lying beyond the skies humans can never achieve.
His cracked lips filled with agony, and his limbs so sore that amputation might have been a better option than having them. The shuddering aftermath of hallucinating pain still inflicted his body with suffering.
