The Golden Heart Manifest Book One: The Longest Winter

Chapter One: A Cottage In The Snow

     Picture if you will, an image of an empty village. Silence is prevelant as hundreds of men, women, children dream the night away. The only sound to be heard is the soft, muffled patter of snow as it carpets everything in sight. Only one thing shows any sign of life, a lonely cottage placed a few miles outside of the village, close enough to call itself part of the establishment yet far enough to be secluded from it's entanglements. A glimmering flame blinks off and on, casting an odd glow in the freshly fallen snow outside frontmost window, carved expertly from it's wooden frame. Suddenly the flickering luminence dies, the smoke of the now dead fire billows lazily from the chimney of the cottage, goes up a ways and then vanishes, assimilated by the low hanging fog which blots out the night sky.

     Finally the silence is shattered as the front door, also carved of wood and detailed with delicate hands, is thrown open by the figure of a man, very tall and very lean, only a silhouette against the shadow of the moonless sky.  He just stands there at the door, as if unsure of whether to step into the bleached slush which now covers everything in sight. After a minute or two, he reaches into the pocket of a long coat that he is wearing and pulls out...it's hard to tell exactly what in the darkness. He makes a quick flicking motion with his hand and fire leaps up from what is now clearly a match. A portion of his face was shown in harsh contrast to the darknes which enveloped him as he brought a fat cigar up to his mouth and lit it. For less than a second, the match revealed a long sharp jawline, slim just like the rest of his frame. Facial hair osbcured the chin, giving it a jagged quality, and stubble crept up the jaw, thinning out as it stretched farther north, and yet totally avoiding the upper lip. A pair of shimmering silver rims that belonged  to a set of perfectly round glasses hang low on the nose. With a wave of the hand, the match was flicked off into the darkness, extinguishing upon contact with the nearly melting ice beyond. Shadows blanket the world once more, now only the smoldering butt of the cigar showed, bobbing up and down with each breath he took. 

     Now, seeming satisfied with his condition, he begins his trek into the ever thicking snow. He trudges through the snow avoiding whatever fall plants which are still able to peek their heads above the surface, as he makes his way around the simple structure. His heavy boots make a stifled crunch with each step as he rounds the corner and begins to walk away from the house. He stops abruptly, and resting before him is a large dark stone, an almost perfect rectangle, which sits partially buried in white. There is evidence of an inscription on the stone, but in the dark, it's nearly inpossible to see. 

     The man speaks at last. His voice is soft and gentle, but has the faint touch of bitterness in it. 

     "I brought you something."

     He reaches into his oversized coat and pulls out what can be easily distuished as a bundle of flowers. He stands there hesitant, his knees tremble, and then he collapses into the fresh snow, his shoulders shaking from the heavy sobs he takes. Tears flow down the bridge of his nose and into the snow. He tears off his glasses and tries in vain to stop the tears from coming out of their hiding place. He lays the flowers on the ground next to the stone with utmost care and just sets there, reduced to a crumpled mess, on hands and knees as if praying to some unseen god. 

     Just then, his prayer is answered. The snow stops and the fog and clouds part, revealing the briliant beauty of a full moon. The moon smiles down upon everything it sees, and adds a revealing light to all it touches. The man is now fully visible, though still cloaked by that jacket of his, his hands becoming fists, fingers digging into the snow. His hair is pointed and the light dances in it, revealing the very unusual tint of newly grown grass. The flowers are now totally visible, they are roses, and yet they bear the same abnormal coloration as his hair. The inscription in the stone is equally visible in it's chilling relief. 

    It states, in no gentle terms, the final memories of a woman,  no older than twenty, who rests in eternal slumber underneath the stone.