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Equality is a treasure that is destroyed quickly, crushed by people in power with grins on their faces, cackling with dreadful glee in their thrones made out of lies and betrayal. You wonder how many lives were lost to shape weld their crowns and how many more were sacrificed for the carmine jewels that blinded your eyes with its gleam.
The blood that trails after them is a veil, a puddle that slowly becomes an ocean, waves of despair and wrath crashing against each other in a war where no one escapes the battlefield alive. Selflessness is nonexistent in this world, everyone is innately selfish in their own way -- no one is immune to inevitability.
Luxury came in different forms - jewels, wealth, physical pleasure - but during the times of winter where the cold is injected inside the veins of the weak, acting as stardust in their blood, warmth becomes a luxury that many seek. Be it a blanket or just firewood to feed the flames, grimy hands reach for it over and over again in desperation or as a weak last attempt to revive their freezing organs -- warmth is both abundant and nonexistent, a spontaneous existence that made people seethe.
Warmth is a house in the woods hidden by snow and thick trees, covered by boulders and blanketed by darkness -- it's not the ideal location for a home, but it's a home nevertheless so you don't speak of it. Warmth is a blanket draped over a small form with fingers interlaced, it's a crackling of the wood in the distance as its shadows loom over you as a silent reminder that they're the reason you're still alive, it's reveling in the comfort of a person beside you - that was what warmth was for (Y/n).
Leaning against the six-eyed man completely, you couldn't feel anything but gratefulness towards him as the fingers that held the blanket around you tightened, clutching the fabric as the fire danced and twirled in a silent harmony, their grievous light reflecting against skin that's pure as the driven snow. You would've been dead by now if you stayed there, you lament over the thought as you blink, there's no sense of fear in your amaranthine orbs.
You didn't die, that's all that matters in the end. You force your mind to think of that one train of thought -- thinking of freezing made you trace the pads of your fingers over your still-cold flesh.
