Thirst. Hunger.
Seven months later, these were the only things Jack Frost had left to feel.
He no longer remembered how many times he had opened his aching eyes. Maybe it didn't matter. The world before him was still nothing but darkness.
Feeling his way through the dark, he found the vent in the corner and painfully curled his fingers, tapping gently against it.
He hummed that song to himself, though his parched, hoarse throat could no longer make a sound.
His teacher had once told him that music could save a person's soul. Music had saved his soul, but it could not save his body from rotting in the pit.
A pair of deep blue eyes, filled with flames that could consume everything and the stillness of death, with waves of a thousand tangled emotions, looked down into the dark cell.
He was sinking into that azure sea.
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