The Storm, the White, the Blizzard

By: MidnightKitti22

Hi!

It's me, and this is my first FanFiction! I'm not exactly a writer, but I love trying!

Please enjoy!

-MidnightKitti (Mitti)

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Prologue

Darkness.

That was the surrounding.

The bleak air smelled faintly of salt, and only a soft sigh from the ocean could be heard. Waves smaller than ever before came crawling up to the island, only to be pulled back gently into the calm and quiet sea.

The darkness was not in depths; the billowing cumulus clouds had blocked out the waxing crescent moon that floated lazily in the sky. Due to this, there were no shadows except for the equally dark one that blanketed the whole island.

Considering the tranquility of the ocean, most places in the ocean would find themselves inhabited by boats, hoping for fish. Rarely was the ocean around this island so relaxed. There were jagged rocks that fanned out for a mile or two in all directions, troubling the sea and disrupting its usually calmer current. So, this night was especially strange; for the ocean had calmed without the charm of the moon or the stars.

The air, despite having a salty flavor, was cool and crisp. It breezed past the pine and spruce trees, and it ruffled the long grass that only lived on part of the island that was not forever plagued in a deep shadow. It was there, in the jade-green stalks of plain grass that a force whisked past.

Through the deepness of the darkness, a full figure could not be made clearly. However, a small flash of light was caught in a circle of stones, already charred from the formerly-kindled fire. A tiny orange flame struggled to find dryness within the few blades of grass that had been tossed upon the fire by the hurrying figure.

As a silhouette from the soon-to-die fire, the figure quickly swept across the island, cloak billowing behind to brush the partially-flattened turf. Within the figure's arms a wicker basket was clutched close. Moving faster than would be expected with a basket of such weight, the figure came closer to the center of the island, where the trees and grass gave way to a stony and sandy purchase underneath. Just ahead only a meter or so, was an uneven slope upward, occasionally too steep to even climb. Here, with the silver mountainside dipping into small halos, some drops of water were collected, there from a night or two ago when the clouds that shielded the navy sky became heavy with rain, and let it loose over the island.

The figure was shaking slightly, and from either the cold or fear could not be determined. Fumbling around within the long cloak, the figure removed the wicker basket from the safety of arms and set it gently down in a dip. Covering the contents of the basket was a thinly-woven blanket, its color unapparent with no light, now that the fire had died.

The figure leaned close to the wicker. Whatever was contained, was clearly meant to stay, for the figure tucked in the blanket on the sides of the basket, an extra confirmation that nothing would escape from the inside. Murmuring a few soft words, maybe of remorse or perhaps anguish, the cloaked figure abruptly stood up and, upon casting one last glance with gleaming eyes upon the precious package, fled back to the beach on which the fire had been lit. Kicking the burnt rocks apart roughly, the figure's eyes spilled over with shimmering tears that were reflected by a single star, which the clouds had generously allowed, that shone faintly, hardly enough light for guidance.

The figure had enough light, however. After one last kick delivered to the pile, which had scattered the last of the ashes, the figure ran over to the shore, where water lapped up at the dry sand. A boat lay in the ocean's wake, tied down by a wooden stake on land. The figure ripped the stake out of the ground and, tossing it in the boat, climbed inside the sturdy wooden frame. Taking two similar wooden ores in hand, the figure began rowing furiously away from the island.

However, as the boat drifted away, silent sobs could be heard from the wooden structure; clearly the figure was leaving behind something that would be remembered forever.

And, back on the island, the wind blew harder until the blanket complied, drifting away in swirls and landing off in the horizon, immediately soaked by the salty ocean which would soon swallow it forever.

With the blanket gone, the clouds miraculously moved away to reveal the rested moon, which shined brightly upon the contents of the wicker basket. The single star disappeared as the clouds rolled to make room for the moon, after it had insisted on shining down.

Within the wicker basket, curled up so tightly because of the brisk wind that had once again scoured the island, was a small, raggedly-dressed seven-year-old girl, who was very thin from lack of food and whose eyes, when opened, would be a blue so pure they looked as if droplets from the ocean had been picked up and placed within her irises.

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The end of the prologue!

-Mitti