Donkeyskin - ON HOLD

Of Winter

    *of Winter*
The snowy wind slashed at her bare face, icy darts of icy beating at her body. She trembled with a constant shivering, the tattered rags of her once-fine clothing frozen stiff.

    But betrayal stung more than the cold, like a fist twisting her innards in knots. It was a knife in her gut, hot coals beneath her feet. And she wanted revenge, more than she'd ever wanted anything.

    But, for now, a roof over her head would have to suffice. With this relentless cold, she would be dead by morning unless she could find shelter somewhere.

    And if she died she wouldn't be able to exact revenge on those who had cast her out, to freeze in the endless mountain wilderness. She pulled her tattered cloak tighter and stumbled on.

    There must have been shelter somewhere on this frozen mountain, but but despite that, she had yet to find it. She stumbled through trees, black branches tearing at her hair, and her clothes, she floundered in the heavy snow.

    Her veins were ice, her body heavy and cold, and she knew she wouldn't be able to keep going much longer. She burst into a clearing, glancing over her shoulders, and felt despair well in her chest. Her trail was plain, a deep, thrashing path that led right to her. It would be so easy to find her, if they bothered to look.

    Choking down a sob, she plunged forward again, as a beam of light caught in her red hair. She froze. A beam of light? That couldn't be right. It was night, and even if there had been sun, the sky was too cloudy, the weather too stormy.

    But the light continued to glimmer along the line on her collar bone, in her knotted hair, and she looked up. The skies were clear, and it was dawn. The storm was over.

    Yet with the storm's end, the cold seemed to intensify, the wind to howl louder, and she knew that if she didn't move now she would freeze in minutes. She pushed on once more.

    It took her far too long to return to the cover of the trees, and by the time she did, she could no longer feel her feet. She stumbled on, her body aching with the cold, tense and cramping as the snow rose up to her waist.

    And then the trees gave way again, and opened onto a clearing, a tiny farmstead with a barn, and a cottage. She paused. Everything was still; there was no smoke coming from the chimney, and the cottage was dark.

    The cottage. Shelter. Warmth.

    The realization hit her like and arrow to the knee, and she jerked forward, trying to run against the weight of the snow. She slammed into the cottage door, and froze, listening for a response: none came.

    She tried the door; it was unlocked. The cottage beyond looked lived in, and she jumped back, but no one appeared. The hearth was cold, the beds made. Dried herbs hung from hooks on the ceiling and were stuffed into baskets by the door. A stack of kindling and a log waited beside the fire, as well as a pail of water.

    She stumbled forward, collapsing before the hearth, fumbling around for a flint, and finding one. Her hands shook so badly she could hardly get a fire started, but finally a spark caught, and the kindling caught fire.

    Her limbs ached and burned as they thawed, and she wept silently, shivering and gasping, her chest a scratchy ball of pain. A cough tore its way out of her throat, and then another, and she coughed and coughed, shaking and in pain, as the fire slowly warmed her.

    And then the pain grew into a huge wave, a current that she couldn't fight, and she collapsed by the hearth, the world going dark.