Nothing for Tears
The Winter Maiden
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She awakens in the dead hour of the night, and winter comes upon her, clawing the heart from her breast.
She clutches the blankets closer, holding cotton and wool hard to her laboured side to staunch the merciless flow of blood from wounds which are not her own.
In the end, she screams, hoarse in the stillness, although she bites her lip through in protest at the betrayal of valour. Reckless it is, cast adrift in delirium, and the sorrow of the world lives in it.
His soul is fled, and her heart with it, bleeding in the endless night, until she can no longer tell where his red life ends and hers begins.
And the moonlight streaming through the open window seems so very far away.
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