It's snowing outside, I'm stuck at home, and I found a poem about snow. Enjoy!
I do not own anything other than my own creative impulse. The characters of Beauty and the Beast, nor the poem below, belong to me.
Throughout the afternoon I watched them there,
Snow-fairies falling, falling from the sky,
Whirling fantastic in the misty air,
Contending fierce for space supremacy.
And they flew down a mightier force at night,
As though in heaven there was revolt and riot,
And they, frail things had taken panic flight
Down to the calm earth seeking peace and quiet.
I went to bed and rose at early dawn
To see them huddled together in a heap,
Each merged into the other upon the lawn,
Worn out by the sharp struggle, fast asleep.
The sun shone brightly on them half the day,
By night they stealthily had stol'n away.
"Jacob! Jacob, wake up!"
The tiny seven-year-old boy rolled in bed, moaning all the while. Sleep beckoned him back, but he was suddenly shaken, rather vigorously. He balked against it, but still his father's voice called to him.
"Jacob! Son, wake up! You must see this!"
"Father?" little Jacob whined, rubbing his eyes with his whole arm. "What is it? Something wrong?"
"No, Jacob," Vincent assured. "Everything is beautiful! Everything is just perfect!" his excited voice roused Jacob a little more from sleep. "Quickly, find some warm clothes and boots. I need to show you something."
Begrudgingly, though more than a little curious, Jacob climbed from the comfort of his covers and quickly found jeans and a sweater to put on over his thermals. Slipping on his newest pair of boots (a helper had sent them down for him the week before), he spun to find his father handing him a large, warm winter coat. Immediately, Jacob shook his head. "The other one, please," his voice was soft from lack of use, still working out the last remnants of sleep.
With a grin, Vincent handed him the heavy cloak from the coat rack on the wall. Mary had made it for the little boy so that he would have one just like his father's. The child was hardly seen without it from the moment he had unwrapped the gift.
When the cloak was fastened around Jacob, Vincent found his son's hand in a flash and began pulling him from the little chamber. "Come! We must hurry!"
Jacob's excitement was growing the more vague his father was, and he followed just as quickly as his little legs could carry him. The tall, long strides of his father were almost impossible for the boy to match, but he tried his best to step in each footprint his hero left in the sand. Vincent's excitement radiated through the Bond and Jacob's pulse quickened with each passing wave. It was rare for his father to be excited. Most times, it was rare that his father was truly happy. This moment of pure joy that they were sharing was like fresh air in the otherwise heavy atmosphere of Vincent's psyche.
Never was his father mean or cruel, but Jacob couldn't remember a time when there wasn't a sadness lingering around him. It was like something sitting in the corner of a room, watching its occupants. The sadness seemed to sit in Vincent's mind, watching him, waiting for an opportunity to take control of the man. And it happened, more often than not. Little Jacob had learned that the sadness often took his father when his son was happiest. One day, Jacob had laughed so long and so hard that he was bent over his seat by the time his father entered the chamber. The sadness had taken over so quickly that Jacob had been shocked and went silent immediately. His father had learned too; he found ways to block out the Bond so that the sadness wouldn't hurt his son, but Jacob always knew; it was there… lingering.
Vincent and Jacob raced through the tunnels, both of them expertly dodging around corners, and past dwellers who were out of bed. They both smiled; the moment carrying them away, and they happy to be swept up by it. Vincent pulled his son around a sharp turn, and Jacob laughed with excitement.
"The park?" he called with amazement when he realized where they were headed. His father hated taking him to the park at night, and even when the boy was allowed to go Above in the daylight, Vincent always made sure that no one took their eyes off of his child for even a second.
"Hurry," Vincent called, his heart soaring with excitement. They both fell against the gate, the little boy panting and laughing, and Vincent quickly flipped the switch to open the large metal door. They were running again in seconds, and the pair slid to a stop at the edge of the drainage tunnel.
Everywhere, the park was covered in white, sparkling crystals that seemed to crackle and wink at father and son. The snow hung heavy from the branches of the trees; piling up high, growing too heavy, and then cascading back down, closer to earth. The light of a street lamp cast across the lawn and as the snowflakes touched the yellow glow, they seemed to transform into flickering balls of light, dancing in the air. It piled up on the ground, so high that it was half-way to Jacob's knees, and he kicked at it, watching it form into little balls and roll away from him.
Jacob had seen snow before, of course, but he didn't remember ever seeing quite so much all at once. It was like a blanket, a heavy quilt, covering the world, wrapping it up in the most perfect crystalline embrace. He gazed upward, watching the large flakes fall from some unidentifiable source in the sky. Stretching his little hand out into the world beyond the tunnel, he reached for the precious crystals, and they fell, large and wet, into his palm.
"Isn't it magical?" Vincent gazed out at the expanse of white, his voice distant and whimsical.
"More than beautiful," Jacob nodded, his eyes wide, taking in all he could. There was a snap from the small clump of trees, and the branch fell with the snow in a small avalanche, accumulating more as it fell.
"Your mother loved the snow," Vincent whispered with a smile, and his son looked up at him with wide, worried eyes. Vincent tried not to speak too often of Catherine. It proved too painful, and until father and son learned to cut off the Bond in these times, Vincent feared that the force of his pain would crush his child. Now, though visibly nervous, Jacob gazed up at his father, waiting with curiosity. "She said that it made everything perfect. Snow made everything pure and wonderful. To her, snow didn't mean months of cold and darkness; it meant that spring was coming soon. It was a time for celebration for her. It meant the beginning of something. It was hope."
"Maybe…" Jacob paused, his little voice tentative, "maybe that's why my birthday is in winter, father. Because mother loved it so much."
"Perhaps," Vincent smiled down at his son, the innocence of his child's face melting away any cold that the snow may have inflicted. "I know this," he assured, "your mother loved nothing in this world more that she loved you, son."
"How…" the little boy hesitated, looking back out at the wonderland of the park, "how do you know? I mean, she didn't even know me."
"She knew you," Vincent insisted, putting an arm around his son as he watched the snow descending. "She knew you more than anyone has ever known you. You grew inside her, Jacob. And for six months, you were all she had in her whole world." Vincent tightened his jaw to keep it from quivering.
"But," a hot tear coursed down Jacob's pale cheek, "it was my fault. I was the reason they hurt her."
"Oh," Vincent sighed, "my Jacob. Don't ever think that. Please don't ever think that you were the cause of her suffering. You, my son, were her only joy. You were everything to her. I don't want you to ever stop believing that."
"But how do you know," the child readily argued.
Vincent took a deep breath, and he allowed the difficulty and sincerity of his words flow through the Bond. "The night that your mother was taken from us, I held her, just as I have held you; and she smiled at me, Jacob. She told me of you. She told me how beautiful you were. And when she spoke of you, there was more joy in her eyes than I had ever seen. There was so much love in her voice that it isn't possible to even express with words. She loved you, son. She loved you more than you will ever know."
The snow was beginning to fall into the tunnel, and Jacob kicked at it. The wind blew, forming swirls of dancing white that settled and then were swept back up again. Central Park shimmered with all its soft glory.
"What else did mother say about snow?" Jacob queried as he stepped into the little bank, making it crunch under his foot.
Vincent smiled down at his son, and then lifted his gaze to the trees, taking on their new white skin. "She told me once, that when she was a child, she used to love playing in the snow. And, after her mother died, every year, she would make snow-angels. She told me that she used to pretend that the snow-angel was a real angel. She would pretend it was her mother, come back to Earth for a short time to watch over her."
Jacob watched the crystals dance and float, swaying with the breeze, and eventually resting gently among its kind. The street lamp flickered for a moment, and he closed his eyes, smelling the crisp air that constricted his nostrils. It was sweet and bitter all at once. Quickly, Jacob unfastened his cloak, dropping it unceremoniously on the tunnel floor, and stepped into the snow. The bank closed around his legs, higher than his boots, sinking his jeans in the wet coating of white. Just a couple of paces out, his father called to him, and he stopped, turning to face him. With a grin, he suddenly flopped back onto the snow and began waving his arms and legs as wide as he could; spreading the deep snow out around him.
When he was decidedly done, and sufficiently wet, he held his hand out to his father, who grasped it firmly and pulled his son from the snow without the boy's feet ever touching the ground. Panting and cold, Jacob cuddled close to his father and studied the figure he'd made in the snow. Wide, sweeping wings, attached to a small body, and the expanse of the base spread out like a robe. Simple and elegant all at once.
"Mother was very beautiful, wasn't she father?" Jacob gazed at his snow-angel in a strange longing.
"She was, Jacob," Vincent nodded, a hot tear slipping down his cheek.
"I think this is the perfect place for her. Right here," he nodded proudly at the angel. "Like, she's sort of in between. Seeing everything Above, but watching out for us Below."
"Just as she always was," Vincent agreed.
"How long do you think she'll stay here, father?" Jacob crouched, pulling his cloak around him, but never allowing his eyes leave the angel.
"Just as long as she possibly can, son," Vincent breathed, the force of air forming a cloud of white mist that passed into the falling snow and was swept into the wind. "Come," he wrapped an arm around Jacob and turned him back towards the tunnels, "it's late. The snow will still be here tomorrow night. We'll come back then."
"Promise?"
"I promise," he kissed Jacob's head. He closed the gate behind them, disappearing into glowing candlelight of their home.
"Father?"
"Jacob?"
"What was her favorite color?"
And suddenly my thoughts then turned to you
Who came to me upon a winter's night,
When snow-sprites round my attic window flew,
Your hair disheveled, eyes aglow with light.
My heart was like the weather when you came,
The wanton winds were blowing loud and long;
But you, with joy and passion all aflame,
You danced and sang a lilting summer song.
I made room for you in my little bed,
Took covers from the closet fresh and warm,
A downful pillow for your scented head,
And lay down with you resting in my arm.
You went with Dawn. You left me ere the day,
The lonely actor of a dreamy play.
~The Snow Fairy, Claude McKay