They sit in silence before the fire; she busies herself with needlework, he counts the flakes of snow that settle on the window's ledge.
They do not speak.
There is an air of contentment within the walls of the room, and the sound of the fire's breath lights upon their thoughts as an echo.
In her hands she holds a span of pale wool; white as snow it is.
It melts into the dusky recesses of her gown and gently stains the dark linen. She plucks at it distractedly, and looks up to meet his gaze. But he still looks beyond the room and out into the open; out into the blowing chill of winter.
Her eyes follow his, and fall upon the falling snow that taps against the frozen glass. He smiles at some distant memory, and she grows still as she watches the smile flicker upon his face.
---A smile that fades as quickly as the traces of light upon his brow.
"It is cold," she whispers suddenly, and tugs her mantle tightly about her strong shoulders.
It takes him a long while to take heed of her, and when he does, she notes that his mind is elsewhere. He draws close to her, and fingers the material that rests upon her lap.
"This wool is soft. It will keep the babe warm," he murmurs, his eyes resting for a brief moment upon her swollen belly. "You have no need to fear the cold."
But she fears not the snow, nor the moaning winds that grip their home. She fears a coldness that can still two beating hearts; make the warmth between two loved ones seem brittle and harsh.
He sits himself down at her feet, and rests his dark head against the folds of her gown. He watches the flames in the hearth, and speaks no more.
She realizes then, that he is content to sit so beside her.
... And her fear fades into the dark night as do the slivers of snow that grace winter's firm breath.
---