The spatter of blood on snow greeted the mid winters dawn. The elven woman reaching for the bud of a winter rose closed her hand over the thorny branch as a spasm of sudden pain rocked her. The blood drawn by the thorn blended and faded into the petals of the rose, as though the two were really one. Drawn by the woman's cry maids also gathering blossoms for the mid winters feast rushed to her side, and hurried her inside the manor. The midwife was summoned, and a groom sent to find her ladyships husband who was away on the hunt.

Lady Naellia Wintermorn's time had come weeks early. The babe was not due till after the dawn of the new year. The birthing was hard and fast, with little chance of stopping it. By midmorning Wintermorn manor had a new occupant. In infant girl fair as sunshine, with the nebulous dark eyes of new life. The babe was weak and fragile, the midwife feared for her health. By the time Lord Wintermorn arrived at his wife's bedside the priest had been summoned to give the babe last rights.

"Sir.. the baby.. she will not live out the day. We must give her a name and commend her soul to god, before it is too late." The voice of the bent old priest held nothing but comfort for what he thought would surely be a grieving parent. He was very wrong.

"What care I? This weak girl child is useless to me, as is her foolish mother. Let the devil take them both." Lord Wintermorn, stated with a bit of a hiss, spinning on heel where he stood watching his daughter, and striding from the room.

The old priest made a sound of distress and turned to the mother, who simply turned her head away and whispered "You heard my husband ... Do as you will just do not ask me to name her."

The thought of the beautiful baby who's only sin was to be born female being condemned to the hells for her parents pride was too much for the old priest. Motioning to the midwife he moved to the cradle and began murmuring the prayers and rights of blessing over the infant. His eye caught the basket of winter roses left by one of the maids, discarded almost sadly just as the child had been and he knew..

" Little light born on the morn of midwinter, Forsaken by those who should love you best, I name you for my own mother Eiellani, and for the Rose of winter which fades as soon as it is birthed. I commend your soul to God and pray you always shall feel his light."

The baby Eiellani was dressed in her finest outfit, a darling little dress of snow white velvet trimmed with soft white rabbit fur as a concession to the winter chill. Her short amber curls where brushed and fluffed and tied, her caretakers making every effort to turn the child into a vision that would please the master of the house.

The wet nurse now turned nanny carried the child into the music room spot on the appointed hour. She quietly stood listening to the soft music provided for his lordship every afternoon by his favorite musicians, keeping her eye on the man watching him for any sign that he was showing interest in the babe. It came at the most unexpected of times.

Little Eiellani loved music, she would sing in her babyish voice soft songs that trilled like birdsong every time she heard the notes of a familiar tune. So when the musicians began a soft elvish lullaby, the baby began to sing softly. Lord Wintermorn was well knows for his exotic pets, his favorite being a leashed firebird kept chained and caged in a arbor just outside the music room. Music was the only thing that even remotely soothed the wild, angry bird so the doors french doors to the garden were always left open during performances no matter how bitter the weather.

When Eiellani began to sing her soft bird like trill, the firebirds head swung towards the babe. The nurse thinking the bird displeased rushed to hush the child only to be motioned to silence by Lord Wintermorn, who was watching the bird. The long graceful neck of the bird was swaying, and soft chirps eased past its raptor like beak. The bird was singing with the baby. He motioned the nurse to set the child down curious as to what she would do. As soon as she was on her feet the little one toddled unsteadily right out through the french doors, tangling her fingers in the long lush tail of the firebird and cooing happily.

Since the day the firebird had been captured no one had been able to do more than feed the chained bird, for fear that raking talons, sharp curved beak, or plumes that sparked to flame when the bird was agitated would do them permanent harm. But the bird seemed pleased by the baby's touch, the pair chittering happily to each other.

For the first time since her birth Lord Wintermorn began to think that this girl child might have some use after all.