Blood on snow
It is a pearl white landscape, soft and peaceful. Tiny flakes fall and settle and float and drift. They move around the two figures standing at a stalemate. Both are beautiful, indescribably so, with faces of pale perfection. One has hair the colour of the autumn; the other's hair is the winter. One is ice, cold and sharp. The other is fire, warm and passionate.
Blood is on the snow, red smears marring the perfection. The hot scarlet drops fall from winter like berries to hiss into the snow, strangely warm since he is the ice.
Autumn is silent and still. She smiles kindly at the winter and opens her arms to embrace him. His gun jumps in his hand and smashes her in the chest.
Her smile never changes.
How long had it been since they had last seen each other?
Too long maybe for old friends. Not long enough for life.
They still look the same; she may be more beautiful, slightly older. He may look bitterer, more worn.
Sparkles fly from the autumn like embers from a fire and she still smiles the same.
He drops the gun to the floor and falls to his knees, clutching at the throat wound leaking blood. It was her last meal, and he knows she took too much, before giving it all back to him.
He holds her gaze, eyes like two chips of flint, ice right to the last.
Her eyes are filled with sadness; warm tears trickle down her ever-smiling face.
"I forgive you."
Then she vanishes in shooting stars and sparks and he is left alone in the bloodied snow, the wounds on his neck healing and her blood rushing through his veins.
"I know," he whispers to the snow, as he thinks about the final exchange of blood, so that they both understood why, and finally he let the tears come.
"I know."