The moonlit snow glistened like shards of broken glass, her eyes scanned the ungiving wasteland that only seemed to get harsher and harsher as the months went on. Her once nearly existent hope had dwindled into a freezing hole in her chest, leaving her empty and constantly in a state of everlasting agony. She refused to stare down at her now purple and blue frozen over fingers, once delicate and properly taken care of. Oh, how she yearned for her past days, warmly living in a pristine castle, enjoying lovely meals that were handcrafted with nothing but love.

Now, as she weakly drags her frail body through the cold blanket of snow, hair draped down her sharp shoulders, she can only crave for something so warm, so forgiving, such as death. Yet, her luck had never been hers, nor has her body, or soul. In the long run, Isolde will never be hers.

If it were truly up to her, things would most certainly have been different. She’d be able to refuse that cruel marriage, defy her father, and still be able to thrive freely. But, no, she’d never get her fairytale happy ending. If there were one thing she knew for sure, it was that she’d forever belong to the cold isolation of this winter barren land.

Yes, that’s simply a fact. This body, this soul, these cold and restless hands, all belong to the snow, the never ending hell of winter. She had always assumed hell to be a blazing hot eternity of suffering and physical torture. Somehow, it was worse— No being did this to her, no, the nature she adored previously had done this.

A bird flew from over head, effortlessly flapping its feathered wings, as if carefree in nature. Does this airborne creature not understand it’s power? Its ability to gracefully embrace where ever the wind takes it, allowing it that angelic freedom that Isolde craves like a drug? No, it doesn’t. It takes that luck, and thinks nothing of it.