Work Text:
Winter is stark. Everything is sharper, brighter. Nights are longer, the air is crisper and the high-skied, sunny days posses a searing brilliance.
If one was to fight in winter the terrible cold would dull one’s senses. The snow underfoot would be treacherous, it would give and slide and entrap. If one was to die in winter that death would be more than in summer. The pain would become agony; the fresh blood would steam and stain the snow. One would grow so very still in the red ruin of one’s grave. Then winter winds and winter snow would sweep away the tracks and seal one’s grave. Under that cold blanket one would fade; one would forget. When spring comes to uncover the husk of one’s body one would be truly dead.