Snow

Snow, he thought, was such a simple thing to stand for so many others.

There was, of course, the obvious ones. The kingdom of Atlas was swathed in the white dressing 10 months out of the year (and plagued by ice storms the other 2). A single snowflake served as the symbol for his father's company, which was so prominent and closely tied with the tundra of Atlas that its emblem had almost become synonymous with the kingdom.

Beyond the company itself, the snowflake represented the Schnee's power, their hereditary semblance of glyphs. How many times had he seen the intricate glowing snowflake stretch across the floor, summoning fearsome ethereal Grimm or speeding up the very nature of time?

But even without that connection to his home, his family, and the powerhouse that linked the two, snow meant so much more on its own.

Snow was supposed to be white and pure, soft and beautiful in its freedom from blemishes. But one touch, one foot to the virgin landscape, and it was irreversible changed, marked and damaged, no longer elegant once it had been disturbed. When it fell in the cities, in the refineries, and at the dust mines, it did not leave the ground pure. The cities trampled the snow with thousands of feet and turned it to slush with its heat. The refineries puffed black smoke up into the clouds, and streaked the land with soot, sawdust, and dirty tracks. The dust mines colored the snow all sorts of hues with its discards; blue and red and yellow and green until it all bleed together into an ugly brown sludge.

Despite being herald across the kingdoms as a symbol of the power of his family and the strength of his kingdom, he knew that snow was not strong. Snow was not strong, it was not pure, it was not innocent, or at least if it had ever been, it did not stay that way for long.

The Schnee family was snow. Once upon a time, perhaps, they had been pure. Good people working to make an honest living. But then they were invaded, walked upon and stepped on by an outsider that dared to claim the land for himself. And what could they do but watch as their name, their legacy, was tarnished and dirtied and turned into that sludge that clogged the city drains?

He was snow. He had been trampled. Streaked with soot like the landscape of Atlas, then colored with bright shades in an attempt to make him look elegant once more. It didn't work, though. He simply bled and blurred the lines until nothing was left but cold brown slush.

Waltz

Since he had been able to walk, he had been taught lessons in dance. Even as the youngest, it was expected that he attend the galas and functions that the company hosted, if only to maintain the image of perfect breeding that his father wished to project. As many of these event had some form of schmoozing disguised as ballroom dancing, it was imperative that he was able to participate without embarrassing the family name. He had learned several styles, foxtrot and quick step and everything in between. Waltz, though, had to be his favorite.

There was something oddly intimate about this dance, something more that the others lacked. Slower than the others, each partner sharing the same space and moving in perfect tandem. Voices spoken in whispers, heard only by the other over the elegant music. Fabric of dresses and skirts twirling like flower petals, the graceful steps and slides of the leader of the pair, partners moving in their own little world, yet never meeting any of the other pairs except in brief flashes of exchanges, performed seamlessly in mere seconds.

It was a beautiful thing to witness, 20 or so pairs moving on the floor in sync with their partners and the others around them, almost hypnotizing in a manner of speaking. That wasn't to say that there was not beauty in the other dances often performed at the balls, but the waltz had its own air to it; it was no wonder it was considered to be romantic in popular media.

He had only been attending balls since he was ten, and only been asked to participate since he had reached thirteen, but he had found that he enjoyed the dance far more when not being forced to pair with his tutor or Weiss. There was something very mechanical about practicing with a teacher, and while Weiss was willing to dance when the situation called for, he knew it was not her favorite activity. However, dancing with an unfamiliar girl whose family was trying to make nice with his own, and simply enjoying the music and the rhythm of movement, it is the closest he has ever been to being free.

Nothing mattered but the steps and the beat, falling in with the 3/4 time, gliding across the room in a swirl of fabric and color. It was impossible to remember anything outside of the flow of the music, unimaginable that anything could possibly stop this communication of gestures and notes. It was empowering in an odd way that he could not even begin to put into words. Even though he knew that in a few moments it would cease and mean absolutely nothing any longer, he couldn't help but get swept away in the waves of music and flourishes.

Music

According to Weiss (and the old sheet music that he had found in the long abandoned bedroom), his eldest sister used to play the cello. Where that cello had gone, he wasn't sure, as he had never come across it in all his explorations of the house, but he found it hard to imagine that she had taken it with her, so he was forced to the conclusion that the poor instrument had met his father's wrath.

Weiss herself had never learned an instrument. She had once been forced to attempt the violin, but her musical concentration soon turned to singing when Father finally allowed her to and realized she would be far more proficient with her voice then she ever would on an instrument.

As for him? Well, to maintain their family's image of having well-groomed and cultured children, he was taught to play the piano. Twice a week every week for as long as he could remember, he was sat on the cold metal piano bench, his hands were placed on freezing slender ivories, and he was taught how to play.

His feelings on the piano tended to vary widely depending on when in his life you asked him. At first, when he was beginning to learn how all the keys worked and how he could create different sounds depended on which and how many he pressed, he was rather indifferent to the looming instrument. It was simply another chore to do, something he had to get through to please his father, like his lessons with his tutors and his homework. He sat and listened and parroted back what his teacher said, fumbling through the keys when the teacher asked him to, then moved on to the next task in his day. Rinse and repeat.

Later, though, when he was maybe 8 or 9 or so, there was a moment when he was banging on the white and black keys, doing his best to sort his way through the messy back notes on the paper in front of him when suddenly, he heard it. A hint of the melody he was supposed to be producing came from the keys, reverberating in the chest of the piano and around the room. It shook him, and he hit the keys again, more preciously this time, more conscious in the placements of his fingers. There it was again, the song he was meant to be playing, coming forth at his commands and echoing beautifully through the room and through his ears. He swept the pages of his songbook back the first page and began again, slowly working his way more carefully through the songs, savoring each correct note and the music he was creating with his own two hands, falling slowly in love with the majesty of the piano and music itself.

Soon, when his skill at playing a few basic songs had become passable, his father set him up to play accompanying to Weiss's singing. They had performed at a few charity events when they were young, as a way for his father to show off to the elitists of Atlas the skill with which he had corralled and tamed his younger two children (hopefully drawing thoughts away from the pesky former heiress in the process).

It was around then that it occurred to him that the piano was not simply to culture him, or a respectable pastime his father had introduced him to. It was another way for his father to control him. He played when his father told him, what his father told him to, and how long his father told him to. Much like everything else in his life, it was not something he did of his own choosing; it was another hoop his father had placed in front of him and told him to jump through. Take lessons in etiquette and history, pretend to be the perfect little child at the events he was taken to, and perform songs on the piano. The piano was not the freedom to express that he may have once thought it when he began to pursue it with real passion. It was an expression of the shackles his father placed on his wrist, of the confines of his own emotions.

It was much the same for Weiss. She once did confess to him, back when they had enough of a bond to confess things to one another, that she sometimes felt like the songbirds in the menagerie out in the gardens. Confined in a cage and forced to sing on cue. They used to be quite a pair, he thinks at some times when his fingers dance along the keys he is still made to bring to life day after day, even though his performance days are far behind him. Two figurines in a music box, he can compare themselves to, that only play when the box is opened and their keys are wound up. It is only with the guidance of their higher power that they make their beautiful music. They may not do so once their father no longer wills it, no longer gives them music to use. Made to play through the same music, the same tones of false cheer and poise over and over again, until finally the little keys ran smooth and could no longer make any noise at all.

He felt that now, when he was told to practice the piano. The keys felt worn smooth by his touch, completely rutted into a beaten path rarely deviated from. Even though that must have been a figment of his imagination, merely a comparison of how he felt to the nature of the songs he played, it was something that no less seemed like fact every time he placed a new booklet of music on the stand and began to pound on ice-cold ivories. It was his imagination that made it feel like his hands were glued to the same set of notes to be played over and over again. It was his imagination that caused the keys to squeak with disuse every time he dared play a chord or melody that was not on his papers. It was his imagination that every song his father gave him sounded the same, and that it was only when he dared to play something of his own invention that he could hear beauty in the calamity.