Colours, textures, tastes

Instigating prompt here:

Han Solo.

It’s being Han Solo in Cloud City. Betrayed by his friends. Hunted by his enemies. An experiment of the Dragon lurking in shadows. One minute, it’s rage and aggression, a balled fist and a curled lips. He’s there, he’s there, he’s fighting then…

There’s a stumble, a hiss and it all goes black. Sensation leaches from the body with the weeping, unnoticed insistence of a slow puncture. Motivation. Motion. They’re sucked into oblivion through a gaping chest wound. Thick black nothing fills the resulting cavity. Black is thematic, but it’s not the world. Existence isn’t that interesting. It’s a cold, muted grey.

It’s not always carbonite. It’s often a cloak. Soft to the touch. Warming. It slides across the shoulders, brings comfort to a tired mind, tired body. The embrace soothes exhaustion, tugs away strands of panic, stress, pain and regret. Threads unravel, tapestries of personality vanish leaving the familiar, muted grey.

An admiral soars in deepest winter. Red wings flash in contrast against a dull, sleeping world. A heart flutters in time to beating wings. Beauty, agility and the unusual capture the imagination, the soul. Insectile grace steals the attention, paints the heart with a warm glow. Gaia’s soft hum pulls the dancing butterfly into the distance. Filaments of emotion, of clarity and of self become tangled in six tiny legs. Pulled away, they leave nothing but charcoal bleakness.

Han’s present at the finishing line. Crawling from carbonite, numb bones aching, eyes blinded by renewed sensitivity to light. He again hear his friends, feel the nearness of those he loves. It’s not over; soul-death ice still contaminates his body. Numb confusion gnaws at his brain. It’s a struggle to move, a struggle to breathe, but the symptoms dissipate into memories before phantasmal smoke. It aches, but it’s an improvement.

For all his suffering, Solo’s the lucky one. Solo got frozen in carbonite only the once.


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