All is quiet. All is still.
The settled snow still drifts on the breeze, painting foliage and stone with winter's chill blanket. Icicles hang from branches, decorate caves, silently malevolent as they linger, marshalling frozen moisture from the very air itself. Nothing moves, nothing lives, in this still, white plateau.
There, on the icy plain, where the winter meets the water in an age-old battle for dominance, there is a strange sculpture. In this darkness, from this angle, it seems little more than a mishapen lump of ice, sparkling as the solid waves of cresting foam on the edge of the lake do.
The breeze ruffles the branches, making the icicles sing their tinkling song of lands to the north where the snow never thaws. Above, the clouds move and part, and the winter moon shines down, blessing the white landscape with her pale light. And the ice moves.
What was once a mishapen spike softens, solidifies, becomes a pale arm, waving smoothly through the air. The thaw continues, down through what is now a body, a female body. She stands near stillness for a long moment on that unforgiving surface; a pale face surrounded with a wealth of flaxen hair, a slender body that seemed motionless in silk that clung to her curves, legs both beautiful and strong tapering to feet that bore blades to carry her over the ice.
Then, without warning, she moves, gliding fluently over the ice as a rhythm strikes up in her heart. She never speaks, nor does she look about her. Her focus is only on the dance. Footwork that never falters, spinning, leaping, as she attains attitudes with grace and strength. Never does a smile touch those full lips, her countenance given over entirely to her dance.
The moon shines down, the breeze plays icicles to accompany her, and the snow drifts about her feet, a winter mist to cloud her in secrecy and mystery. And she dances with unerring skill and beauty of movement, uncaring if she is seen or heard, never deigning to acknowledge any who stand by to see the spectacle.
The breeze fades, the snow settles, the moon returns to hide behind her protective clouds. And the dancer stills, her limbs losing life and vitality, growing mishapen and blue. An outstretched hand becomes a jutting spike, legs join in a thick trunk of frozen winter. Where once was flesh, now there is only the ice.
The settled snow still drifts on the breeze, painting foliage and stone with winter's chill blanket. Icicles hang from branches, decorate caves, silently malevolent as they linger, marshalling frozen moisture from the very air itself.
All is quiet. All is still.
And the ice maiden waits for the moon once more.
The settled snow still drifts on the breeze, painting foliage and stone with winter's chill blanket. Icicles hang from branches, decorate caves, silently malevolent as they linger, marshalling frozen moisture from the very air itself. Nothing moves, nothing lives, in this still, white plateau.
There, on the icy plain, where the winter meets the water in an age-old battle for dominance, there is a strange sculpture. In this darkness, from this angle, it seems little more than a mishapen lump of ice, sparkling as the solid waves of cresting foam on the edge of the lake do.
The breeze ruffles the branches, making the icicles sing their tinkling song of lands to the north where the snow never thaws. Above, the clouds move and part, and the winter moon shines down, blessing the white landscape with her pale light. And the ice moves.
What was once a mishapen spike softens, solidifies, becomes a pale arm, waving smoothly through the air. The thaw continues, down through what is now a body, a female body. She stands near stillness for a long moment on that unforgiving surface; a pale face surrounded with a wealth of flaxen hair, a slender body that seemed motionless in silk that clung to her curves, legs both beautiful and strong tapering to feet that bore blades to carry her over the ice.
Then, without warning, she moves, gliding fluently over the ice as a rhythm strikes up in her heart. She never speaks, nor does she look about her. Her focus is only on the dance. Footwork that never falters, spinning, leaping, as she attains attitudes with grace and strength. Never does a smile touch those full lips, her countenance given over entirely to her dance.
The moon shines down, the breeze plays icicles to accompany her, and the snow drifts about her feet, a winter mist to cloud her in secrecy and mystery. And she dances with unerring skill and beauty of movement, uncaring if she is seen or heard, never deigning to acknowledge any who stand by to see the spectacle.
The breeze fades, the snow settles, the moon returns to hide behind her protective clouds. And the dancer stills, her limbs losing life and vitality, growing mishapen and blue. An outstretched hand becomes a jutting spike, legs join in a thick trunk of frozen winter. Where once was flesh, now there is only the ice.
The settled snow still drifts on the breeze, painting foliage and stone with winter's chill blanket. Icicles hang from branches, decorate caves, silently malevolent as they linger, marshalling frozen moisture from the very air itself.
All is quiet. All is still.
And the ice maiden waits for the moon once more.