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“Song of Winter”

She seemed to come from the snow itself, as though the swirling flakes had made her, and her white cloak enhanced the illusion.  He had only seen her because of the movement of that cloak, more solid than the surrounding whiteness, had caught his eye.  He looked at her as she came towards him, wondering what had brought her out into the storm, and at such a late hour, for it was well past midnight.  He himself had taken to walking the streets when sleep evaded him, as it so often did, since his tragedy, not that he had slept much before though.  He knew he should turn before she came closer, but something about her made him stay. 
“Monsieur,” she whispered when she stood before him, her voice, though soft, was chilling, like the snow-filled air around them.  “Is the snow not lovely?  So pure, so soft, like living in a dream….”  And with those words she leant forward-

Erik woke with a jolt, for the past few months he had been haunted by that dream, of the woman in the snow, ever since Christine had left him the previous spring.  He missed her greatly, but something within him refused to give up and let the rest of him, which wanted out so badly, to die.  Knowing he would never sleep again that night he stood and pulled on his dressing gown.
The voice of the woman still held his attention, so soft, beautiful, and yet it was icy-cold.  This night was also the first time he had seen her face, she was strangely pale and her eyes were a frosty grey, her hood had concealed her hair, but something told him it was nearly as pale as the snow.
He went out into his drawing room and, taking a book from the shelf, settled before the fire.

From the snow she came again, the same as before, and she spoke the same words, “…like living in a dream….”  This time when she leaned forward her felt her lips brush his, gently, as though the snow itself had kissed him.  When she pulled away it was not the face of the woman he saw, but Christine’s.

Erik snapped open his eyes, still in his chair before the fire, realising he had fallen asleep there.  Frustrated he tossed the book aside and dressed to go out, perhaps a walk would clear his mind.
When he stepped out into the Rue Scribe it was filled with snow and more was falling heavily around him.  He strode out heedless of the storm and thankful for it, the weather meant he would meet no one on this walk.  He had barely been out half an hour when a flicker of movement caught his eye.
There she stood, exactly as in his dream, in her long white cloak, coming towards him, and he could not move.
“Monsieur,” she whispered, and her voice still chilled him, “are you Erik?”  He was startled; she had never said his name in any of the dreams he had had.
“Yes,” he replied, just as softly.
She turned those eyes to him, those frosty grey eyes, “Will you teach me to sing?”
Now he was truly confused, a strange woman seeking him out in a blizzard to ask for singing lessons?
He shook his head; “I am not a teacher.”
“You are,” she insisted, “teach me, please?”  And she placed one hand on his shoulder, to keep him from leaving her, as he was prepared to do.  He stared at her, at her white gloved hand, at her strangely pale face, at her eyes, which now, upon closer inspection, seemed to contain a blizzard of their own.
“What is your name?” he asked.
For a brief moment she seemed surprised, “Eira,” she replied.
Erik shook his head, something wasn’t right with her, but he couldn’t place what.  “I will not teach you, I am sorry.”
She looked very hurt, “I have nowhere to go, no innkeeper will let me in his door and not even you will grant me a kindness”
Somehow, he could not refuse her, perhaps because he had dreamed of her so often.  “You may stay with me until the storm passes.”  He was rewarded with her look of amazement at such an offer.

When Eira entered his house Erik noticed that she looked about her as though she had never been invited in someone’s home before.  She wasn’t certain what she should do, and when she pulled off her white cloak she simply held it in her arms.  He gently took it from her, to hang it with his, and noticed that it was velvet and lined with fur, all of the purest white, the hems and hood were embroidered with silver snowflakes, it had been expensively made, which truly puzzled him, since she had said she had nowhere to stay.  He turned to look at her, she was standing by the fire, gazing at it with an intense curiosity, but keeping her distance from it as well.  He noticed her hair was exactly as he thought it would be, the palest blonde, nearly white in colour and neatly piled atop her head.  Her gown was also white, off the shoulder, and trimmed with fur, with a plain full skirt.
It was then that he realised that she had turned that curious gaze on him.  “May I bring you something?” he asked.
“No, thank you, but I am fine.”  Her voice was still chilling, even in the warmth of his house.
He gestured to Christine’s room, not because he wanted her to stay there, but because it was the only other bedroom, “If you need to rest, you may use that room.”
That look of amazement crossed her features again.  “Thank you, for your hospitality,” she murmured before she disappeared into the room.
Erik turned and went into his room and, for the first time in many months, slept without dreams.

The next morning, or later that day, Erik found Eira sitting in the drawing room as far from the fire as she could be and eyeing it distrustfully.  She cradled her left hand close to her.  He could see the red burns from all the way across the room.
He walked to her, “Did you burn yourself in the fire?”
She looked up as him with a child-like expression on her features.  “It was *hot,*” she declared.
Erik shook his head; “Have you not seen fire before?”
“I have seen fire before, but I have never been close to it,” she spoke sadly, “people use fire to keep me away.”
He sighed, whatever she meant by that he did not want to contemplate.  He gestured to her hand, “Let me see that.”
Slowly, as though she were afraid he might do her harm, she gave him her hand.  Erik took it, shocked at how cold her skin was, with the exception of the burn, colder than his icy hands had ever been.  He gently rubbed an herbal poultice into it and wrapped it with strips of linen.
“Be gentle with that,” he smiled at her, “and you will remain here until it is healed.”
She nodded, “I am very grateful for your kindnesses.”

Eira stayed through late-February, nearly the end of winter.  Erik grew accustomed to her strange presence in the house, the chill in the air that seemed to surround her.  He knew when she had sat in a certain chair or had been reading a particular book because the object was chilled from her touch.  He also gave her the singing lessons she had asked for, though he quickly discovered she did not need them.  When she sang for him her voice was pure and crystalline.  When she sang softly his mind was filled with images of snow falling softly in a quite forest, when she sang with power and triumph he had the strangest sensations of being trapped in a blizzard.  Whatever she said or did brought to mind winter scenes and though her voice was beautiful, there was no warmth in it.  All of this puzzled him and he could not understand what made her so strange.  By the time she was ready to leave he had still not figured her out.
It was afternoon and when Erik looked up to see Eira she was wearing her cloak, immediately he understood that she was leaving.
“You have come to tell me goodbye, have you not?”
“Yes, Erik,” and her voice was strained, “it is time for me to leave, but I have something for you.”
He drew in a sharp breath, “What is it?”
She looked very nervous, as though she dreaded what she must say, “Do you know what my name means?”
“No.”
“It is Welsh, it means ‘snow’.”
Erik did not look surprised; “At least it suits you.”
“My true name is Winter, Erik, I am so sorry, I have deceived you,” with those words she began to cry and her tears were tiny drops of ice. 
Erik stared at them in wonder as they fell with a soft plink on the table.  “How have you deceived me?”
“I am what my name says, Winter, I am the Spirit of Winter, some call me the Snow Queen.  I am not a mortal woman as I lead you to believe.  I was afraid if you knew the truth you would do what so many have, turn me away in fear, for who invites the Winter into their home?”
Suddenly Erik understood, all the pieces fell into place, the coldness of her hands, the strangeness of her dress, the unmistakable chill in her lovely voice, and her frozen teardrops. 
On impulse he took her hands, “I invited Winter to my home.”
She dropped to her knees before him and kissed the palms of his hands, “I will forever remember your kindness towards me and in return I shall grant you one wish, if it is within my power to bring it to you.”
Before Erik had time to think the word, her name escaped his lips, “Christine.”
Eira released his hands and stood, “She is your love, am I correct?”
“Yes,” he whispered, “but she has long been lost to me.”
She came around the table to stand directly before him and placed her hands over his eyes.  Eira began to sing a strange song in a language Erik did not know but somehow understood.  It was her song, the Song of Winter.
When he opened his eyes he stood, surrounded by a swirl of snow, on a deserted street.  A woman came running out of one of the elegant houses. 
Christine, he would know her anywhere, but before he could move in her direction the snow enfolded him and when he could see again he was back in the drawing room.  Eira was gone.

Christine came running out of the house she shared with Raoul, she had finally faced the fact that she was *not * enjoying being a Vicomte’s wife.  The past year had shown her true feelings for him, which were not pleasant at all.  The street was snow-filled and unbelievably quiet and she hurried away.
She seemed to come from the snow itself, as though the swirling flakes had made her, and her white cloak enhanced the illusion.  Christine had only seen her because of the movement of that cloak, more solid than the surrounding whiteness, had caught her eye.  Christine looked at her as she came forward, wondering what had brought her out into the storm.
“Are you Christine?” the strange woman asked her.  Her voice chilled Christine and she turned to run.  The woman placed her hand on Christine’s shoulder.  “If you go to him, he is expecting you.  He will welcome you again, for he still loves you.”
When the woman released her Christine felt as though she were lost in the heavy snow and could see nothing but the surrounding whiteness.  Then her hands brushed something solid, in amazement she stared at the gates to the underground lake from the Rue Scribe.  Unhesitatingly she unlocked them and went down.  Whoever that woman had been she had brought her here, Christine was certain of that, and she trusted the idea of returning to Erik.  Perhaps she never should have left him in the first place.
Erik was waiting for Christine on the banks of the lake when she arrived.  Christine just stared, he was standing on the lake itself, and the lake had frozen.
“Welcome home,” he said and offered his hand to help her cross the ice.  She accepted it without question.
Erik smiled and silently thanked Eira, for what she had brought him; Winter was forever welcome in his home.