a tragedy the way our story goes; maybe, perhaps, almost.

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The morning was quieter than normal, a soothing balm to the otherwise incessant chatter that surrounded Cassian. Yule was arriving swiftly, a declaration of company the woman figured was confined to their icy walls. Though the mention of invitations spread beyond the cold had surprised her, Vanille felt a sense of pride in Cassian's decision, a warmth she was unsure he held any longer. It halted her preparations none.

Which was why she was out, coveting a sacred tradition that fell from her mother's bleeding heart. Recalling the moments of sweetness, the forgotten efforts of compassion, it was what kept her sane, what allowed her to feel the past even if parts of her had chosen to forget. So she braved the weathered terrain, the winds that threatened to rip into her skin, and the trek that tempted even the strongest to turn back.

Though not everything remained the same, the small valley just between their twin peaks held its same reputation. Unchanged, untouched, almost as if waiting for her return. A small piece of green in the grand scheme of white, it was her favorite place to find blooms of purple nestled tightly against the bottom of trees. Almost as if coveting the warmth, the company, the solace of not being alone when all that surrounded you was emptiness.

Overhead, an owl lurked, watching her delicately pluck violets from their frosted bundle. Interested in its presence and both comforted by the company, she ignored it, continuing her collection of decoration for the celebration.

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