Now the frozen steel hands that had a death grip on all of life begin to crack, slowly and imperceptibly at first. The bands of cold, hard steel loosen, and the tears of the Earth well up and fill every impression in the woods. The mists come more frequently now, too, and the army of the Lord of Winter disappears within, slowly escaping between the worlds, waiting for its chance to slip away. Visible retreat is not an option.
The slow retreat. |
The Banshees come again, washing their dirty shawls in
the water, wailing in despair. Even they
had been frozen, immobile in the ice. I
ask, what good is a world that banishes even Death? At least Death gives a hint of the Life that
was, but in the frozen embrace of the Lord of Winter, that beauty was coveted
and hidden away. No more. Now she cries on the shores.
A tiny pip of a bird can be heard in the forest as she
searches for last year’s dead grass and carries it high into an old oak. A great willing is felt, and it is time to
change again. The secret clock will soon
strike the hour, passing over.