He’s at the end of the cavern with his back against the wall, hands folded in his lap & knees slightly raised. As a figure, it would have looked the same if not for the tilt of its head exposing a much older, harsher face ; the finery & jewels about its person sang of snow & ice still, yet there were flecks of stardust on its lashes. Nearly catatonic, the Season stared out past the rocks before it into worlds unknown to bury them in its wrath & fling Cold into the stars. Luthias knew now what Winter was & had always been &, for the first time, tapped into the full breadth of his own spanning self. He was IMMENSE. Impossibly so.
It was easier to do this than anything else : learn rather than continue to forget. The Winter of all had evolved into something more, desperate to fill in the holes gashed into his person. His memory was full of faces he could no longer identify, places he clung to that held no meaning, dreams & fanciful things that warped from distractions to nightmares with ease. There were times the being would speak & others when it would fall dismally silent.
Thus, when SHE comes, Luthias barely moves. His eyes flick upward long enough to affirm that there is another only to fall back, partially covered. Whether or not Cold knows her today is unclear, but there is one grim certainty that can hardly be ignored : he is not whole. & will likely never be again.
