Author's Note: This is my retelling of the Snow Queen, which is a fairy tale that I enjoy very much. I got the general idea from FaylinnNorse (who, by the by, rocks my socks) and her Snow Queen story, but this one's going to take a bit of a different turn than the original. It's my first real fanfic story so…YAY FOR BRUTAL CRITICISM!! But please nothing TOO harsh, for the sake of my poor li'l sensitive soul 

Disclaimer: I do not own the Snow Queen. That would be good ol' Hans Hans. He's a very nice man and amazing storyteller and you should ask him about it. Anyway, here it is…

I am cold.

It wasn't a surprise. Cold was not a stranger to her thin, white body. To her eyes of black. To her heart of stone. She'd invited it in, and it had come to stay.

I am cold.

But it never got better, being cold to her bones and never warming up. She never got used to the numbness of her fingertips, the ice in her eyes, the dull throbbing in her soul. It never got easier, not being able to feel happiness. Not being able to feel anything.

I am cold

She was Queen of her dominion. Every last speck was hers to control. It served her everything she could ever want. It gave her the cold beauty that brought grown men to their knees.

Stupid things, men were. Stupid.

I hate them.

She held on to it, this hate that rested eternally in the pit of her graceful stomach. It was the last thing she could feel. It reminded her that she was alive.

She'd held it for so long she didn't remember why. God knows she didn't feel the pain anymore. She didn't feel anything except the hate. But oh! How she felt the hate. It was always there, a frozen lump in her abdomen, a black haze in her mind, a pounding that was just a bit louder than the throbbing in her soul.

The hate kept her living. It made her the majestic creature she was. The Lady of the land. The Queen of the Ice and Snow. It was just the way it should be.

I wanted it this way. I am beautiful. I am powerful. I feel no pain.

I am so cold.

It wasn't the winter that they'd fallen in love with. Not winter, with its biting, nasty cold, or its darkness that came so early, or the time it took Tom Landon's daddy away. That nasty winter that brought ice and dullness and death. Though they enjoyed making snowmen and their counterparts the snow angels, though sledding provided a seasonal thrill, though it brought pink to their noses and cheeks, they did not love this darkest of seasons. Though snow is beautiful, it is also chilling. Though cold is exciting, it is also dangerous. Not even the entrancing crystalline pictures that the frost drew on the windows were enough to persuade them to give their love to it. The winter was not for them.

It was the summer that they loved. When the early morning sunshine bid the roses to open, and climb the trellis between their houses. The flowers bloomed and relished the warmth, and the animals were busy and content. There they could sit amongst the friendly flowers or leafy treetops and enjoy the seasonal freedom from their heavy coats. They could swing their toes in the warm breezes and throw things to the funny dogs below them. It was in summer when his skin got so brown and ruddy and healthy. It was summer when her white hair reflected the hot sun of the noontide.

Strange hair, that little girl has, some of the people whispered, it is white as the snow in December. Strange little white-headed girl.

They weren't nice to her, those Whispering People. Not nice in any season, especially in the nasty days of the dark winter, when the cold seemed to worsen their bitter moods. Sometimes they would look at her with their mouths hard and their lips twisted. Their eyebrows would leap high on their foreheads, and their eyes would shout at her: "Go away, you strange little white-headed girl!" And when she had gone they would whisper some more:

She didn't get it from her father, rest his soul…

…His was brown as a mouse…

… Her Wretched Mother must have had good crop of hair…

And they would whisper till they could think of nothing more to say.

Kay didn't care what those Whispering People said. Whoever she got her hair from didn't change the fact that she could kick a ball as far as he could, or fight like twenty armies, or run faster than the strong East Wind. It didn't change the fact that she liked getting muddy, and forgot to care about the cleanliness of her apron, or that she agreed with him that shoes should only be accepted when mandatory. It didn't change that her dog was his favorite of any in town. In his opinion, if her Wretched Mother's hair did anything at all, it was to make her easy to find in their games of hide-and-seek.

And that was joy, as best he knew it: running barefoot in the summer, not caring for cold, nor frost, nor icicle. When they could splash in the river and roll down grassy hills. When the clouds were fat and lazy and looked like strange white animals. It wasn't like the winter, when the fish were frozen and would not bite. Winter always bid them to wear heavy boots and itchy coats. Winter swept through the town and made their faces hurt with the cold. And sometimes, it was so white and snowy that he couldn't see her.

Sometimes,in the dull days of the season, she did it on purpose; she'd hide behind her white hair and make him search for her in the snow-covered forest. Once, when they were eight, it took him a whole hour, and he'd passed her several times before he finally saw her.

"I've found you, Gerda, so I have!" he called playfully, "Come on, you strange little white-headed girl! I'm blue in the lips, and it's time to go home!"

It became their game in the dark days of the winter -- the winter that they did not love – to shout it at one another when the day was dying.

"I've found you, Gerda, so I have!" He would call, "Come on, you strange little white-headed girl!"

The wind would carry her high-pitched laughter as she called back, "I'm blue in the lips, and it's time to go home!"

The two little friends would then clasp hands, and the winter would not seem so dreadful.