Weekly Drabble #37: The Cold (Patreon)

This week's drabble entry comes from Knightress with "snow", so here's a short tale of a young couple in love in the winter. Originally, Soran was to be the viewpoint character, but I liked Hileen's outsider perspective a little bit more, so she got star billing and I tweaked the ending to take that into account.

Hope you enjoy!

~

The Cold: 

Hileen Asoro laughed as she darted through the snow.  Soran was close behind her, swatting branches out of his way as he chased after his betrothed, but he was losing ground to the smaller, more nimble Hileen. She slipped between close-growing trees and through brambles that he had to circumvent.

He had a Hillman’s physique: tall and strong, from a lifetime born and bred in the Coldpath Foothills, with the pale hues of all Northerners and a dusty red close-cut crop of hair. Despite his size, he had a sharp wit and a steady temperament. By comparison, Hileen had the straight, raven-black hair, brown skin and epicanthic folds of a Southerner. Though she had been born in a distant nation, she had been grown up here. Her family had lived in the city of Waterstone for more than a decade, but they were still considered to be ‘the new folk’ or ‘the Southerners’. They had left their old home when her father had fallen out of favour with the new king. Her parents never talked of the circumstances of that falling out, but it had sent them fleeing across three nations, to a place as far from the land of Asaben and its Kohrnirii Dynasty as they could get, to a land where no one cared about palace intrigues or the name of Asoro.

She didn’t remember much of Asaben. The cherry blossoms in spring. The sound of violet cranes calling to each other, the way the plains around her home in the castle spread out and turned orange with the rising sun were all she recalled. 

Here, there were apple and apricot trees, loons and snow hawks and the hills rising up into the Valtan mountains, their snow-capped peaks dominating the skyline. She’d come to love her adopted home and Soran himself. He’d changed from the boy who had once dropped a frog on her head just to hear her scream to a tall, soft-spoken apothecary. When he’d returned from his studies in the White Manse, she almost didn’t recognize the gangly, shy boy that had left, but he still remembered her. As children, they’d spent a lot of time together.

He’d told her the legends of the Hillmen, from the Forge of the Sky, to the Straw Cook and to the stories of the Cold Ones. Those had scared her the most. Her father had told her once not to put any stock in Hillmen’s tales, for they were the superstitions of a less civilized people. She’d asked what made the northerners’ stories so different from the aesops and myths her parents told her. She’d gone to bed that night without supper and with a sore backside.

Now she was a grown woman and she’d put aside the frightening tales that had kept her up at night… but she still remembered the rules.

Never share a fire with someone who will not speak.

Never touch a smiling corpse.

When the storm winds die, be on your guard.

Always know who it is you see in the snow, and be careful what you say.

At the moment, all those thoughts were pushed from her head as she darted through the forest. It had snowed the night before and everything was covered in a white, pure blanket. She loved these days. It was like the world was made anew, fresh and clean.

Hileen couldn’t hear Soran behind her any longer, but she wasn’t worried. Even if she wasn’t leaving a clear trail to follow, like most of the population of Waterstone, he had a natural affinity for the forest. He’d find her in short order. She just didn’t like to make it too easy for him.

She remembered the day when Soran had asked for her hand. It had been a warm fall morning. She’d been in the dining room, peeking around a doorframe, her view of Soran mostly blocked by her father standing in the door. Soran had been in his best suit and jacket, holding his hat in his hands and nervously tapping his fingers on its brim. Her parents had been talking about matchmaking more and more in the last few months. None of the men of Waterstone were proper enough for her parents’ taste, lacking in refined southern manners and good culture. She hadn’t liked – or liked enough – any of the potential suitors her mother and father brought up, but all that came out of those conversations were aggrieved sighs and stern lectures about obligations and duty. As she’d peered at Soran, the tall young man almost wilting under her shorter father’s evaluative glare, her heart had been in her throat. After several long moments, her father had sighed and looked over his shoulder. “What do you think of this one?” he had asked Hileen.

She wasn’t sure what a ‘proper’ southern husband would be like, but she knew she would be happy enough with Soran. He was from a poor family, but he had spent years away at the White Manse studying. Now, he was a cunning physician and many people came to him for treatment. There was even talk that the town’s Master had noticed him.

Starting to pant now, Hileen came to a stop in a large clearing. She had grown from a child to a woman here among the forests of the Coldpath hills, but the icy winter air still hit her harder than an actual Northerner. She rested her mittened hands on her knees, steam puffing from her mouth as she caught her breath and waited for Soran to catch up. She raised her head and paused. There was a figure in the clearing, a few dozen meters away. They were standing with their back to her, wearing a long brown fur coat. She recognized it as Soran’s. He’d gotten ahead of her.

Hileen straightened up. “You cheated!” she accused. “You know the woods better than I do!”

He didn’t answer.

The young woman blinked. “Soran!” she called to him to catch his attention.

He didn’t respond, didn’t so much as turn to acknowledge her. “Soran!” she shouted louder. There was still no answer. “Soran, answer me!”

Still, he was silent. Hileen took several steps towards her silent betrothed. “This isn’t funny! Soran, stop playing around.” A pause. “I’m not scared! I know it’s you!”

She crept closer, only a few meters away from him now. He remained perfectly still, continuing to stare out into the forest away from her. There was nothing in the treeline that she could see. She reached out an arm as she got closer. “Soran?”

Suddenly, she was seized from behind, a hand clamping over her mouth and she was lifted up and carried away. She struggled and kicked in her attacker’s grasp, biting his fingers.

“Aah!” Soran hissed softly but fiercely. “Hileen, it’s me!”

He set her down and she looked at him, then whipped about to the figure in the clearing. It was still standing there, still dressed exactly as he was. Her eyes widened and a chill went up the young woman’s spine. “What-”

She didn’t get the words out before Soran covered her mouth again, putting a finger to his lips. Hileen closed her mouth. She took Soran’s hand and squeezed it tight. “Take me home,” she whispered urgently. “Take me home now.” The pair turned and started to run back the way they’d come, back to town.

As they hurried from the clearing and the strange figure standing there, Hileen looked back over her shoulder. The figure was turning towards her, one hand reaching out…

She saw its face, and she screamed.