As her footsteps carried her closer to the main area of Hyperborea Palace, however, faint voices from inside pushed aside her thoughts. Frowning slightly, she turned her fae ears in the direction of a voice, and slowed her pace to a creep. Hugging the external wall, she tried to pick out the voices — one was definitely yours. You sounded defeated, weak, causing her heart to pulse with protective anger. The other one she knew too well — it was her father, that was certain. Assertive. Arrogance and smugness dripped from his words like liquid phlogiston.

Not to mention the chill in the air — biting cold, and not by weather nor her hand.

Snegurochka edged closer to the door, and peered through from the corner of her eye. There you were, your profile and stature unmistakable, sinking down to one knee. Movement inside caught her eye, and the classic weapon of an Oprichniki back and forth into view and out again. You were in trouble — but the once indiscernible voice sharpened into clarity. Curious, she raised her head just enough to peer in.

When her father next spoke, she could have thrown up.

“Go to the gates of Pahjola, and I will grant you my daughter’s hand. Rest assured, Ptikamoonen will grant you a fine visit.” he said, and with that, he and his men exited the room, and the room fell silent.

She felt utterly helpless. Bereft of direction and purpose like a lost seelie, save for the one laid out for you from her father. Trapped by love and her father’s scheme — and, you were fully aware of it. Not blind like a certain visionary. Make sure that you follow the fate that has been cast upon you, or as a doll and Snow Maiden, let herself be carved into seven pieces.

Her mind, empty and powerless as it was, strove to find a solution. Make sure she did, and there was a guarantee that her father would hold up his end of the deal with them... no matter whose blood was spilled. Or, make sure that you were in her place, and became frozen, and cut into seven pieces. Just like it was originally planned.

Either way, someone’s blood would be on her fathers hands; and either way, she would hate herself for letting it happen. More importantly? She vowed that she would never accept a marriage proposal again. The Third Descender, whose relationship she happily and gratefully wanted, whose relationship she felt would melt her and her heart.

Maybe she could help you, and you and her could concoct a plan? The pessimist side within her scoffed at the idea: in a week’s time her father expected to see you in the gate of Pahjola, or she would go instead.

With no idea where to look, save for a vague plan, and a deadline... whatever plan that could be cooked up was moot.

Hope drifted away like Nibelung’s loss during the Funerary War.

Returning her gaze to the floor, she wondered if the heaviness in her chest would ever leave, like an abyssal hand dragging her down. She looked up to glance over at the door and then to you, and discovered a sensation at odds with the sombre, grim cloud in her heart.

In those eyes was a person who knew they were going to die, and what they would die for. Who you would die for. You faced the despicable turn of events that would culminate in your end with dignity — something that fate had, already, cruelly ordained — for the chance of her to live. For that, you had her undying respect and loyalty.

Such as it was with names carrying a destiny, a weight that could not be defied nor ignored.

She wondered if, were the roles reversed, she would do the same for you.

Her heart had already spoken its answer.

Was it love, or merely a deep bond between you and her, knowing that you were willing to risk your life for her?

She wished she had more time to find out.

Sneguorchka took a step inside, enough to feel that magnetic pull. “Aja—{{user}}. I heard it all. You know what will happen if you follow my fathers scheme. The burden of punishment was never meant for your shoulders,” she gestured between you and her, “I can’t just lament as the inevitable unfolds, why? How are you so calm about it? About your death?”