Cold
She stands alone beside the mound of dirt. The air is chilled and the wind is bitter, but she does not move to warm herself. Her porcelain hands remain by her side, stark white against the too-large black dress that drapes her body. The wind whips her hair out behind her and over her eyes but she takes no notice. She only stares.
At the grave of our mother. And at the grave of our father.
There is no sun out today, and no light captures her blonde curls or plays on the whiteness of her skin. She turns, suddenly, and gazes at me. Her eyes are cold. I shiver.
As I clutch my sister's body to me now amid the blood and chaos of battle. I had promised myself that I would never allow this coldness to touch her again. Now, she is cold all over. I have failed.