You wake up in a field of snow. You are surprised that you are not frostbitten as you examine yourself. Not a scrap of clothing was on your body. Sitting up, your muscles protest moving from their relaxed state.
You look up to view the stars or sun for coordinates. There is no luck. The clouds above you are so thick you cannot see whatever light currently dominates the sky. There is a familiar smell in the air. It reminds you of warmth. It filled your head with memories of failed s'mores and discarded paper waste for the…
Your head throbs as you dig deeper into your memories. A word is all you need to complete the thought, but it fails you. The nostalgia is ruined by pain.
The winds begin to pick up. The numbness on your front side slowly creeps to your back. The chill seems strange though. It is stronger from the air than the snow. In fact, the snow underneath you feels warm. Unconsciously, you brush your hands over it for clarification. It is quite powdery, crumbling and blowing away with each movement of yours. They must be such small flakes to be more of a crumbled chalk than a sand.
Your most recent memories have a cloud on them, forcing you to go even farther into the past. Somehow, you know you were the reason for the expanse of white, but you fail to find the connection. You are not a person with mastery over any form of the base elements – water, air, and light.
It hurts to stand, but you do so anyway. You need to start moving. You just know no one would be coming to save you. There will be no reason to stay in the same place until the clouds cleared.
One foot in front of the other – prickles of pain among the numbness tortures your feet. You start unsteadily, almost falling from the headrush alone.
Each step increases your stability.
Each step helps wake you up.
Each step puts pressure on your sore feet.
Each step is an act of will to keep going.
It feels hopeless to wander like this. Your mind cannot wander too far lest you lose all self control and crumble like the white that surrounds you. All you can see is white. All you can taste is dried winds.
You are strong. You have been through your own hell. This isolation is not forever. Just keep walking.
Colors slowly seep into the faded canvas of your mind. Your memories seem to defrost as you chill. Against the voice in your head, you continue to ponder how you came to be where you are. You are surprised when you begin to sweat during your trek. You should be frozen.
Your foot lands in a bed of cold, startling you. The feeling is so unexpected that you fall upon your rump, upsetting the powder around you.
Why is the snow in front of me cold and the snow behind me warm?
The shock upon your body clicks the pieces together. That word ignites in your mind and body simultaneously.
The world is not white anymore. It is reddish and glowing and blazing and shining and dripping and tearing and burning. The world around you is on fire.
"Make it stop! Please, make it stop!"
Male and female voices around you scream in torment. It smells like a bonfire no matter which direction you turn. Burning pain surrounds you, yet you yourself have none. Outwardly, you feel nothing. Your mind is ablaze with rage and fear. Inwardly, you feel everything.
Everything, regardless of material, is turning black by your hand. Human and animal skin crisps faster than your emotions change. Armor that should have withstood your power melts just slowly enough to watch, but the melting is too fast to allow the ones who wore it to remove the garments before becoming fused with the substance. Surrounded by the intense heat, the tears that threaten to spill from numerous creatures cannot.
They should have never lied to you about your sentence.
They had brought you to a plain with only ice as far as the eye could see to ensure your disposal. The plan was to wound you beyond repair and leave the rest to the elements. Your instincts halted the blades aimed for your turned back. The first blaze you released was not intentional. Arrows had been their backup if the direct kill did not work. The second flame was filled with purpose. The metal and wood combusted and turned to ash before it reached within a foot of you. Everything became chaotic. All you could do was burn brighter and brighter until everyone else did the same. You had no awareness until you finally felt no threats were aimed at you.
The people and beasts were too busy trying to save their own lives.
The canvas of your mind rips. You can see pieces of white again. The flames threaten to burn the paper to pieces as well as your sight. The ground is not cold anymore; the wind is.
You're going to burn yourself dry at this rate.
You see people begging you for mercy where they once cheered for your seemingly inevitable demise. The traumatic past and blurred present mix in your vision. Everything alive is suffering in the same frame that everything alive is gone.
Which one is the real now?
You cannot remember. Do you want to remember? Maybe they were right to try to kill you. Should you just die here? The only constant is fire. Is all you do just consume?
Your heel brushes the ice in front of you, the same ice that shocked your memories to the forefront of your mind. The present is white. The world is not on fire. It is cold. The wind is not blisteringly hot. You are alone. Nobody is screaming in pain.
The wounds from your harsh breathing autoheal at a slow pace, slowly taking from your energy. That feeling grounds you even as you continue to inhale the subzero air.
Rivulets of sweat cascade down your body. In but moments, it freezes against your flushed skin. You sit in a frozen puddle of your own fluids.
You are scared of the snow.
You fear touching your trigger once more despite necessity drawing you to carry on walking. Instead you lie back down again, eyes closing. When they open again, the clouds are gone. It is night.
Where would you even go if your country, the only country that accepted power usage, had you executed?
You decide to walk away from the original direction you had gone and head in the opposite way. The south always promised better weather. This time you will be prepared to touch the ice. At least, you hope you will be.
