Flickering candlelight cast frenzied shadows on the ancient stone walls; the shadows depicted the ending, the true ending, of a fairytale, when the there is nothing more but the gloating darkness, when all that remains of the valiant heroes and the pure heroines are silent ashes.

            She knew not what she was doing, her hands had taken a life of there own; in truth, her whole body seemed to have finally wrenched itself away from her mind; no longer could she control it, she was a puppeteer grasping desperately onto torn strings. Through the cold haze of logic that only the most desperate posess, she saw her hands throw her closest possessions into a small traveller’s bag, she saw them skitter across old books and letters, squabble over her writing tools, and coil away with the disgust from anything that was reminscient of him.

            She wondered whether he would find the disarray and think her to have been kidnapped. Idly, she played with the image of him falling to his knees and weeping. Suddenly she was struck with worry that hammered at the walls of her mind, bounding to and fro, and suddenly, there seemed nothing more important than this persistent thought: would the cold cobbles hurt his knees? Would the rough stone break that pale skin, would it stain him with crimson red? Would the blood run in small rivulets, seeping into the stone?

            If she could have, she would have laughed at these prepostorous thoughts. Her life was falling apart before her eyes, the seams dissolving into oblivion, until only the shreds of what once had been were left, and here she was, fraught with worry over him. Yet he had been the one who had unraveled the precious strands of her life, he had caused her to spiral down into these depths. But you could not choose whom you loved; she had always been a firm believer in this. But she had never known, never even spared a single thought to the fact that you could not choose when you stopped loving.

            She laughed harshly amidst the sobs, as the simple, terrifying truth sank down and seeped through the pores in her skin, until she was swallowed whole by it, drowning in the bitter truth.

            She still loved him.

            And no matter what she said, or did, she could not change this simple fact. One could not change the sky’s colour, nor change the order of the seasons, why should one be able to change love?

            But the daggers sawing away at her heart were persistent, and she knew she must escape, before she ceased to exist; for she knew that if she stayed, her spirit would silently curl up and die, and she too would follow.

            The hands that were not quite hers had finally finished their frantic task, and she stood quickly, whirling around to face the doorway. The shadows mimicked her, swaying in the candlelight, imprinting her every move upon the wall for a mere second.

            She gasped as she saw the dark outline. She knew every inch, every single crevice, junction, and protrusion. She had memorised this figure long ago, and it was imprinted on the backs of her eyelids.

            Him.

            Life seemed to freeze, and if she tried, she could pretend that nothing had happened, that they still lived in a dream, that they were still above the clouds, evading the storm that drenched the world.

            And then life was speeding by once more, and she was running, running, pushing by him, tearing through the fragile web of what once had been, of what could have been, and the dream was lying shattered at his feet as she broke through the doorway, away from the room, away from him.

            It was then that she felt her wings tear, that she knew she had fallen, and that the storm was stronger than ever.

            And the world was crashing around her as she cleared the elaborately decorated stairs, and then her feet sunk in the pristine snow, and, oh gods, she should have worn something warm, but she had not been thinking. Or rather, she had been thinking too much. The clouds were bruised, and any moment the blizzard would begin, she could feel it in her bones.

            She marred the blanket of snow with her footsteps, gouging deep holes wherever she stepped. She stumbled on, half-blinded by the curtain of tears that blurred the world around her, but at the same moment, made it so much more simple, so much clearer, for it was revealed down to its true essence, with no deceit, no lies, no masked truths. Everything was as it really was, and she realised how simple life really was. People made it so complex, so intricate. Her heart’s rapid beating was all that mattered now, and she imgained she could feel the blood enter the chambers and leave, carrying the precious oxygen that enabled her legs, (what lovely creations they were! Perfect for escape,), to move up and down in their own rythm, and with each step, she was farther and farther from the castle. There seemed to be nothing more to life, simply running. Oh, how simple it was!

            And then she was falling, falling, enveloped in the cool snow that soothed her feverish thoughts. Her mind stilled for a second and she let her eyes drift shut, wondering what it would feel like if she stayed like this for eternity.

            If she wished it to be, would the snow never melt? Would it form a coccoon around her, protecting her from the cold of the world? Could she transform this into a magical land of eternal winter, where the snow always sheltered the earth, and the clouds tucked it in grey blankets?

            But these were silly dreams, and her dreams had been shattered a few hours ago. She struggled to her feet, saw the bench within her reach.

            So near, and yet too far.

            She felt the fatigue of the world settle upon her shoulders like a mantle, and even clenching her fist was a grueling task, but she needed to know. She needed to make sure.

            Her nails dug into the flesh of her palm, imprinting their crescent shape, until they were outlined in red. She squeezed until the vivid blood trickled slowly across her wrists, bidding its time. The trail snaked its way around her milky skin, slowly curling into a bead. It parted agonisingly from her flesh and began its descent. Her eyes followed its every move, watching the elegant curve as the bead was airborne, slicing through the air like a comet in its final seconds of life. She saw it splatter onto the alabaster snow.

            Nothing beautiful could last forever.

            In its wake was left a morbid painting, the mark of a maddened artist. Her eyes widened in wonder and she tentatively reached down to trail her fingers in the sanguine trail. When she lifted to inspect them she saw that they too were stained.

She had thought that perhaps she had died, for she had sworn that she could not live without him. And though her world had disappeared, had been erased, here, here was the proof that through her veins still ran the living blood.

Funny how the body ignored the death of the mind, though she felt everything but alive, her body still stubbornly clung onto this thread of life, unheeding her wish.

She regarded her fingers closely, running the pad of her thumb along the crimson gash, until her fingers were smeared with her blood. Strangely, it looked more like cherry juice than anything else. Involuntarily, her mind rifled through her memories, the ones she had forgotten to lock away, and procceeded to play a scene before her eyes.

                        His ebony locks contrasted with his pale skin, and his lips were stained ruby red. He grinned and leaned down impulsively, dragging his thumb along her cheeks, and slowly trailing down her forehead to the tip of her nose, marking her. His eyes sparkled as he sat back to view his masterpiece.

                        „Now you belong to me…” He laughed, those cool grey eyes lighting up from within.

                        She remembered the bittersweet taste of cherries, the bittersweet taste of him.

            It was true, she still belonged to him, he had taken her heart and her soul, and she had nothing left for herself.

Funny how she had never marked him as hers. But it had seemed wrong to mark him, he who was as free as the wind. She wondered where along the lines she had given up her freedom to him. She had flown in the sky, had taken orders from no one, and she had belonged only to herself. Yet she had offered her freedom to him on a platter. She wanted to believe that he had been wholly hers, if only for a while, but she could not be certain. She wasn’t certain of anything anymore.

And now, now that her freedom had been handed back to her, bruised but still alive, she found to her greatest shame that she wanted it no more.

She felt a strangled cry rise up from her throat, and she clenched the sullied snow in her bleeding hand, the sudden anger boiling within.

              Suddenly she felt warm hands grasp her shoulders, and she instinctively knew their owner. How could she not? She had memorised the slender fingers, the slightly calloused palms, the unnatural warmth that was always present. A part of her burned at the touch, felt the fires spread in circles, and another part recoiled from the ice. He had picked her up, and placed her softly on the wooden bench, making sure to clear away the snow. He sat down beside her, waiting for her to begin.

            Her head had been resting on his shoulder, but she moved it away now, and regarded him closely, searching those grey eyes that were capable of holding so many emotions.

            „Why?” She asked simply, one word echoing all her questions. Why me? Why her? Why wasn’t I enough? But most of all, why?

            He did not answer. Perhaps, he did not have an answer, perhaps there was no answer at all. She shook her head, and smiled bitterly.

            „Your name,” she murmured quietly. He arched his brow in surprise.

            „Your name… Nolan,” she smiled sadly, „Noble. Is that why you told me? Because your name is so deeply engrained in you?” She shook her head. „I wonder, would ignorance have been bliss?”

            He shook his head slowly, „No. You know it wouldn’t be so. Neither of us could have lived that way. But, please, stay.”

            She looked at him in shock. „Stay…? How could I? How could I when all I see is you and her? How?” She wrenched her shoulder away, moving away from the warmth, yearning for the biting cold.

            „You know it was nothing. You know. I could not lie to you, you know I could not. It meant nothing. It was only physical.”

            „I know,” the smile was still there, „But how could I stay, if everytime you look at me I see her eyes, everytime our hands meet, I think of you two entwined, if everytime our lips meet I imagine you and her, and I wonder, was she better?” Her eyes were as dry as deserts, her throat parched. He shook his head vehemently.

            „Never.” He spied her hand, curled around itself like a claw, the blood still glistening. He gave a startled cry and snatched it up, desperately raining kisses upon it, hoping they would heal her.

 He caught her gaze and stared at her with worry. His lips were stained with crimson, and she thought, 

like cherries.

She slowly moved her other hand and ran it along his lips, and drew it across his cheeks and down the bridge of his nose, until he had been marked as she once was. His eyes widened: perhaps he remembered, perhaps he didn’t; it did not matter, because she let all her walls crumble. And suddenly her eyes were like springs, and the tears welled forth, hot and angry, leaving a scalding trail along the curves of her face.

            She did not know how she came to be there, but suddenly she was clinging to him, her body shaking with sobs. She felt rather than heard his lips move on her head, she felt the single word reverbrate throughout her.

            „Stay.”

            She did not reply, and he encircled his arms around her, his eyes overflowing with tears. They did not speak, only holding onto each other the whole night, the cold was an unimportant detail, as was all the world.

            In those few hours so much more was said in the language of tears than could have ever been expressed in words. The anger had long flowed away with the tide, and now there was nothing more than despair.

            He knew.

How could he not? Both had completely given up their souls for the other to sift through, to examine every detail, every colour of emotion. He had seen the wounds inside.

She unclenched her hand slowly, from where it had grasped the collar of his shirt. The other he had not let go of, holding it tightly, hoping to heal the wounds. She slowly drew away, lifting her head, and he did the same, as he regarded her with those tired eyes. He knew.

„Layna,” he said simply. She nodded. Truth. She had always been truth.

„I cannot lie to myself, I cannot lie to you. If I stay, I will be living a lie, I cannot pretend that nothing happened between you and her. I cannot live a lie.” He nodded in understandment.

„But if you leave, it is I who shall live a lie. Life is not life without you, if I know I am never to see you again. I too cannot live a lie. You hold my life in your hands,” he replied bluntly.  

             She regarded his open, honest face. She knew he was right. She could not run forever, for that would be a lie too. She could not lie about what she felt, she could not deny that somewhere, underneath these jagged gashes, her love for him still breathed. She sighed and stood slowly, her eyes never leaving his. Both knew she had to leave, there was no way.

            There never had been.

            She removed her bloodied hand last, and she looked at it carefully. She held it out palm first towards him, and spoke quietly, „I must go now… Some wounds cannot heal completely, but when this is but a pale scar, I shall return.”

His eyes caught hers for the last time, and she felt once more the love between them. But she was not ready yet; the wounds were still raw.

She turned slowly, walking towards the distant village, as above her, the first snowflake fell.

            Time would be her soothing balm, and one day, all that would remain of her wounds would be milky scars, lacing through her soul. The old wounds would be covered with new skin, and perhaps,

they too could start anew.