The Song of Night and Snow

Chapter One

He looked up to see the shimmering, crimson colour, trailing behind them in a curved line for as far as he could see. The moon's light was cascading through the tree tops, layering the surface of the ground that was blanketed by thick, white snow, bringing out its starlight shine. The glistening of the ivory floor tainted red with blood, her blood.

His legs were growing week, begging for relief, begging for any kind of rest that—akin to his situation—he could ill afford. He was exhausted, but he wouldn't rest, not until she was safe. His subconscious mind was pulling his legs closer and closer to the ground, and had him fighting internally with his every move to not collapse where he stood. Every trembling step he took had his body growing more helpless, more weak.

The dead weight he dragged behind him caused his muscles to tense and cry out. She was limp in his arms, and he made sure to check her pulse every half hour, he needed her to hold on, for him.

He was in pain, but so was she, even more so. He couldn't give up, he wouldn't. Even while he himself was bleeding out from a deep wound engulfing his lower right side. He wouldn't stop. Not until he knew she was safe, until he knew she would survive. Even if it meant he didn't.

His breathing was hoarse and his was throat dry from his desperate thirst. Every puff and heave for air he took turned into frost as it hit the cool outside air. The temperature that night was cold enough to freeze over the rivers flowing down the Centara mountain—where they were currently—and the lakes that pooled around the  bottom of it. He also found that the was cold drying the silent tears that were falling from his glassy eyes, the ones he hadn't noticed had been leaking out until he felt a drop fall onto his pale, numb hand.

He could see his frosted breath as he exhaled, a juxtaposition of his warm air hitting the cool night's breeze. He noticed her breaths, they were small—too small. Her chest lifted at a slow rate, and fell at an even slower one. Her breathing was shallow and filled with anguish. If he listened carefully, a small wheeze could be heard as she took her ever-so-small breaths. God... she was in pain. But she was still holding on. He knew she was holding on for him and he couldn't let her down now.

Step—step—pull—step—step—pull. He repeated this process for hours, yet he found it a struggle to fathom just how long they had been trekking through the night. By now he was numb to the coolness of the winter's night, he had abandoned his wool jacket to keep her warm. He had made sure she had enough warmth to keep her lips from fading from their soft pink colour, to a deep blue-purple one, like he was almost certain his were. He still had his gloves and scarf, and a long deep blue shirt that was covered with splotches of red ink, but he knew it wasn't really ink. His pants were tearing in several different places, allowing the frosted breeze to enter.  At least his boost were still intact, uncomfortable as they were, at least they kept the warmth trapped, and stopped his feet from going numb.

He tried distracting himself of the events that had previously occurred. Stopping himself from replaying what he could easily call the worst night of his existence.

Looking down at her, remembering her fading eyes, staring into an abyss of nothing.

He had failed. He failed to come to her aid when she needed it most. He failed to keep the promise he had sworn to her since the beginning. He failed and it resulted in her getting hurt. How he used to despise everyone that had hurt her with a burning ire. How he would make everyone regret looking at her in any wrong way. Only for him to be the one to hurt her in the end.

If she lived—no. He couldn't think like that. She was going to live. If he had to travel to the end of time to make that happen he would, but she was going to live. So, when she gained her strength back, he would leave. He couldn't—wouldn't bare to remain around her knowing what he did. And he would have to live with that burden for as long as he was still walking this earth. But she would move on to find a better life, away from him, and away from the hurt and misery that came with him.

* * *

It's funny how a bright light can change so much. How in even the darkest of nights it can shine through. It manipulates the shadows, creating a path; a way out of the dark. It acts as a safe call to lead the darkness away, to catch the eye from within the much familiar dusk. It stands as a beacon in the dark places, where no other light may shine. And, in truth, those who have endured the darkness, have the most light to give.

He followed the light, and he'd follow the light for as long as it took; and he would continue to follow it until the night ended. When the sun would chase away the moon, when the light would seep through the never-ending dark.

He never did liked the dark, he thought it to be cold and lonely. He felt as if he was being suffocated. Even long after he grew up he still conceived the stories. The ones that would keep him up at night. The ones that would keep his candle burning into the early hours of the morning. He never did get why they told him those horrible stories. Was it to scared the children into an early nights sleep? Or maybe it was to teach them a lesson: you can't escape the dark, so better, become the monsters—beat the fears with the fear itself.

She was different, however. She loved the dark, she would tell him about how it comforted her, how she felt she could be herself, without the prying, judging eyes of others. The night was her safe place and the stars were her suns, she found comfort in them. Unlike him, she wasn't afraid of the stories. And that's what he admired most about her. She chose to not only overcome the fears, but she hunted the monsters down, and rid the world of them, one-by-one.