* art history, or depressing writing. I think we all know the answer to that. Thank you reviewers, I am. well I'm not sure I'm glad it strikes a chord, but I'm glad it's enjoyed regardless. *

There's hardly any trace left of what had happened now. Her skin is so pale that any left over scars blend almost perfectly, except for a shining, slightly indented scratch. It is certainly not noticeable to anyone who doe not know to look. But she knew just where to look, just where to run her fingertips to feel the slightest of differences, that showed her ultimate defeat.

She had watched with an emotion that was almost despair wrapped around her heart as the lines of red, then burgundy, healed away; watched her icy skin close over the warmth within. Her mind withdrew as she realized this iciness was her; it would always eat away the warmth, even if it was essentially its own. If she had ever entertained thoughts of change, they were dashed. She was not meant for the warmth the rest of the world lived in. Her world was the reflective glint of frozen water that stole heat from others and still had none. Even the warmth within her was stolen away.

A part of her couldn't accept this. The part that had been allowed freedom, that had seen what she could be, wanted to rage and scream and scrape away this white exterior, where surely the summer's heat still resided, deep within. It wanted the light and the enveloping heat everyone else seemed to know so well. When this part had its say she felt itchy, like her hands were full of electric sparks. They twitched and shook and longed to take something, anything, and prove her wrong; but somehow her other side always prevailed. She had been the Ice Princess forever, and this small voice could not get past her most comfortable façade.

So her life continued as it was, the cold but familiar sting of snow on her back, the equally cold solitude that she had never noticed before, to her nothing seemed to change at all. The sun was gone.