A lone voice echoed around. A voice without a speaker. "The cold is here, and I'm scared. I know that it will take lives, it always does. Life itself cringes away from the ice." Winter stood, at the edge of the forest, looking out upon the vast white plains. She knew that she stood on the threshold of the realms of the Ice Kings, she had heard enough stories to recognise it. She drew in a sharp breath as a sudden frozen wind whipped across her face and through her milk white hair, stinging tears from her large colourless eyes. She was the outcast and this was her true home, yet that was only what she had been told. She was deeply afraid...

Winter sat bolt upright in her bed as a fresh spring breeze blew in through the door as it banged and slammed around on its hinges. This was the fourteenth time she had been visited in the night by an open door and the dream of the Ice. She rolled over and stared at the mirror across the room, gazing at her reflection. That was her, no doubt about it. No one else in the village looked like that.

She let her name roam around in her head, bouncing off stranded ideas and thoughts- memories too. Winter, the child of night, they called her. Winter, the cursed. Winter, no better than an animal. They didn't consider her human. Why should they, she looked nothing like them. Her ears were larger, and only very slightly pointed, but more delicate and her hearing was excellent. Her nose small and extremely sensitive. Her hair had always been pure white, she was not old. In fact, she was only just nearing her nineteenth summer. The other girls her age already were married, with one or two pregnant or with small children. But no one in their right mind thought to bind their son to Winter, oh no. Not Winter, with the white skin the other girls were jealous of. Not Winter with the white lips that the other girls smirked at. Not Winter, with the long white hair that looked like snow, or the clear glass eyes that see as a hawk sees. Winter, with the reflexes of a cat, was an outcast.

There were many who feared her, called her demon spawn. There were some who classed her a faerie, or even an angelic presence, though no one had ever seen either. But no, there was always someone who was only to happy to point out, faeries have wings, do they not? And who ever heard of an angel that aged? A few had even decided she was an elfling, but elves would pass through occasionally, and denied it. Of course they did, she did not look an elf! They were a green and merry folk, all curly red or bronze hair, and twinkling black eyes. Not like her. Not like the pale one.

So she had been nameless and homeless for most of her childhood, receiving food and shelter from various villagers from time to time, for just a night or two. Of course, the church had taken her in at first, until she was about five. She had been left on the steps of the church as a baby, wrapped in scorched and bloodstained rags, but cold to the touch. Some had thought her dead at first, but when picked up she opened her eyes and screamed her lungs out like any healthy child. But no matter how many layers they wrapped her up in her skin was always cold. The comforting coolness of an inanimate object- a stone perhaps. And she would often throw off the layers, complaining of the heat in even the coolest of weather. At least, that was what she had been told, she couldn't remember.

One day a man had come to the village. A gypsy, they said. It was whispered that his mother was a halfling, for though his hair was black as night, his ears were rather pointed and his eyes were deep and black, as the eyes of the elf kin. He had planned to stay one week in the village, for the trade, but on seeing Winter, he had left at once, saying only that she was a curse, a child of the Ice. A winterling. They have always said that the gypsies know more than ordinary folk. And so, on the eve of her twelfth summer, she had been cast out, and named for the first time. Winter.

She got up to fasten the door, but decided to sit outside awhile and watch the sunrise. So she walked out of her 'house' and seated herself on the grassy bank, feeling the cool freshness of the dewy grass along her legs. Her home was inside a hill, with a 'door' of bracken and sticks woven together. Inside was one room, with a bed of grasses and dried flowers, a large jug of water and a broken piece of mirror. In one corner rested her belongings, if such could be called that.

She had a spear, a quiver with perhaps thirty arrows and a bow, all made by herself. She had a cloak of rabbit fur and a cotton dress. She had been wearing the dress when she left the village- it had been big then, but it would fit now, had she reason to wear it. Winter looked down at what she was wearing. She was wearing a vest, skin tight pants so as not to hinder movement and her feet were bare. Her hair was braided back loosely, and was no longer white, but a muddy brownish colour. She smiled a little. All the clothes she wore were made of skins. Rabbit, possum, rat... It was surprising how many rodent skins could be accumulated when they were all you had to eat. Of course she ate birds too, and vegetables. But feathers took longer to weave than they were worth, and vegetable skins weren't very warm.

She had a hoard of feathers piled under her bed, from all the birds she had eaten over the last seven years. It had been hard at first, eating the wild creatures, and harder to catch them in the first place. It had taken so long to build her house though, with only rocks and her hands to carve it out, and she was so hungry. She thought she would die, but then she found a dead mouse. It wasn't much, but it was more than she had had before, and it gave her enough energy to catch something the next day. It was then that she had decided she needed some proper weapons. She was glad she had, for one day a herd of deer passed through the forest nearby, and she had been lucky enough to spear one that lagged behind. It had fed her for one week, and was a welcome change to rabbit.

She looked to the ashes of the previous nights fire, at the top of the hill. The smell of smoke was nice, but still she didn't want any in her room. The sun came up, red and burning in all it's glory. It was a sight she never tired of. Though she had seen it a thousand times, it was as beautiful as it was the first time she had seen it as an outcast. Before that, when she was still part of the village, it hadn't been as important somehow. But now... now she was as close to the forest and the sun as to the ground beneath her feet, closer even- in spirit if not physically.

After awhile, Winter was starting to get hungry. The all too familiar emptiness in her belly grew quickly, and she decided it was probably beyond time she started to go hunting. It would often take so long to find something she would only get one meal a day. From this she had grown lean and the constant physical exercise had made her strong. Her senses were sharp as they had always been, but sharper now because she relied on them constantly.

She collected her bow and quiver, inspecting the arrow shafts as she started down the hill. Some of them were getting brittle in the shaft, some even were split, and almost all of them needed re-fletching. That wasn't a problem, she had plenty of feathers. Soon she would even have enough to make something to trade with the villagers, if they didn't kill her on sight. That was not something that worried her though, Winter knew she could defend herself. It would be really nice if they let her trade for a knife... the Seasons knew how she needed one.

It didn't take long before Winter was in under the eaves of the forest, breathing in deeply the scent of the leaves and the shadows. It wasn't something she would ever dislike, she knew that well enough. The sounds of the woods were light but constant. An ever changing shuffle of small paws or thrum of wings, a leaf falling to the rustling pile beneath, twigs snapping. And the slow steady breathing of one humanoid who had climbed a tree and perched, waiting for some creature to pass beneath on its way to nowhere in particular.

Sure enough, after a few minutes a leveret hopped into her field of vision. Small light brown and furry, the young hare was blissfully unaware of its impending doom. Winter drew an arrow and took aim... fired when it passed beneath her tree. And missed. The shaft of the arrow was split, she hadn't taken the time to pick a good one. It had passed by the creature by just a few hairs. But the hare was aware of her now, and the moment was gone. It bounded out of sight, thrumming the ground with its feet as it went to warn it's fellows not to come out. There would be no food in this part of the forest today, they would all smell the fear of the hare.

Cursing, Winter swung herself down from the tree, snatched her arrow as she went, and set of at a silent run through the forest, feet beating time to the pounding of her heart as her pulse quickened. She spent the entire day hunting, and by sunset had caught a small bird, with un-interesting brown feathers, a rat and a fat rabbit. She had been incredibly lucky. Most days she wouldn't get that much, especially not with arrows in the condition that hers were. It was a stroke of luck though, she had feathers for re- fletching without using the ones she hoped to trade, and she wouldn't have to hunt on the morrow, which would give her time to mend her arrows.

She got back to her home, and opened her door. She would just put her weapons away before she started a fire. Winter leaned her bow and quiver in the corner, and took her bird, rat and rabbit under one arm, and some wood in under the other. As she turned, the hair on the back of her neck prickled. A man stood hunched over in the doorway, staring straight at her. It was the gypsy. He spoke, simply and to the point.

"Leave. The villager's will no longer tolerate your presence, on the morn after tomorrow, they will kill you."

Having said so, he turned, and walked away. Winter was in a shock. She stood, jaw agape, shocked and staring, then stirred herself to life and ran after him.

"Wait! Wait! Where can I go?"

She looked up at him, her desperation shining through her eyes. As he gazed down, cold as ever, but knowing that the faults of the world were not hers to carry the blame for. Nodding once, he gave her a direction, and disappeared immediately as his mouth closed over the last word.

"Go home child. Northward lies your path."

Winter shook her head. Where had he gone... he just disappeared. She looked around, but there was no sign of him anywhere. Trembling, she turned and ran into her makeshift home. The word of the Gypsy folk were not to be taken lightly. Gathering her few belongings, and with one last glance back at the village which had played a part in her entire life, she fled into the forest, heading north as fast as she could. The animals watching the young woman with the blanket wrapped bundle on her back, twittered and chattered away to themselves, conveying the woodland news as best they could.

As dawn broke, Winter stopped in a clearing, littered with plant rubbish. Dropping her bag, she climbed the tallest tree she could see, as if reaching for the heavens, peered back the way she had come. Her home, the plains with their rolling hills and the little village next to the main road were nowhere in sight. In one night, Winter had covered so much ground that the forest stretched away in all directions as far as the eye could see, only to the north, a glimmer could just be seen.

Winter shuddered. She knew what lay to the north. Why had the gypsy said that was her home? North... north lay the lost kingdoms, and death to all who dared tread there. Curling up, she spent the lightening morning with restless dreams and twisted memories. It took her a week at an inhuman speed, which she was often loathe to put out, but which was necessary to put as much distance as possible between her and her persuers. In this time, Winter ate little and slept less. At the end of the week, she abruptly broke through the tree cover, staring out at the glimmering plain. Coated in ice and snow, she beheld a dream come true, for better or worse. The lands of the Ice Kings, harsh, cold and unforgiving. And if she were to believe the gypsy and her name, her home.

Clutching her belongings, she took one cautious step out into the unknown.