"A Brook of Frozen Glass" by Leigh *Shwin* Erickson

With the final death throes of summer, the leaves heralding the victory of autumn were stained a deep shade of crimson. Some had escaped being tainted by summer’s fate and dreamt longingly of the life-giving sun which caused their emerald hues to turn a rich golden shade; the colour of their dreams. Still others yearned for warmth, the chill whispers of the icy wind making them dream of flickering fires and leaping flames. They were tinged with orange.

The forests gave the pretense of being vigorously alive; dyed with decorative colours as a young maiden preparing for a ball; careless, frivolous, and free. But all was a lie carefully crafted to conceal the creeping chill which drained the life from their many veins. For all their wistful fantasies of life and warmth, they would soon lose their sustenance and fade to a lifeless brown; trading the soft supple feel of life for the crinkled frailty of death.

Within the forest there was a lake surrounded by the fiery trees, glistening as liquid silver; streaked with pools of molten mercury which reflected, as a mirror, the pale blue of the sky. The ice had not yet fallen in its terrible purity on the glassy water, too soon in the season it was. But the frost had; its pale tendrils of shimmering crystal splayed across the silver water as ivy over a forgotten dwelling, drawing the gleaming substance into its chill embrace.

The angels above in their realms of warmth and light looked down on the dying world and shuddered, so dark was the creeping chill of death on the once vibrant life. It was a season of dying, one in which the wanderer lost all hope of life, in which even the very brightest lights grew dim, choked and shocked into wretched silence as the very fingers of death caressed their sustenance. Life was fading away, leaving but a shadow against the ebon shade of that which had cast it into exile, against the cloak of death.

It was in this season of death denied that Serai was cast from Heaven.

She was a guardian who had failed her ward and as such was deemed no longer fit for the honour. Thus she was rejected from Heaven to go where she would. Many descended to Hell after their fall, seeking an alliance with the rebels and the fallen alike as a form of vengeance. But she was far too pure yet for Hell.

Silver hair, seemingly spun from a storm cloud o’re the breaking waves of the endless sea, spilled down her back with in a cascade that seemed to emanate the energy of its substance. It moved with the wind as any cloud might, pale and unpredictable; full of life, yet calm. Her eyes seemed to be made of the fabric of dreams, a depthless yet gentle hue that seemed to shift with her thoughts and emotions. They were azure when joyful, a subtle crimson when angered, a somber grey when saddened, and a brilliant green when amused, yet any combination of colour could be seen in them. Her skin seemed to glow with life, a healthy peach tinted with pale hues of colour which seemed to dance over it as the surface of a soap bubble. Her wings, when she had them, were as down. Soft yet amazingly strong they were a marvel among her kind. A silken waterfall of purest white cascaded from their elegant frames, seeming to glow with all things good. But they were no more.

The cruelest thing was not the customary removal of her wings. It was that they sent her out among the crystal frost with nothing to cover her. It was more this than the thought of revenge that pulled many of the fallen into Hell. Her kind drew on warmth as their life source, never feeling nor tolerating cold. To be surrounded by the lack of heat was as death to them, irreversible and fatal. There was warmth in the depths, but the warmth came with a price: the price of the soul. Corruption.

Serai would not suffer this fate. She, whose gait was once smooth as the wings that had adorned her back, limped heavily, favouring first one foot and then the other. Her feet being in contact with the ground’s fatal cold, were fast becoming useless to her; becoming numbed and frozen, death creeping with the cold all around them. She knew not where she was going, only following the narrow path ‘twixt the scattered trees surrounding the lake, taking note of their fiery hues, her own dreams of warmth joining with theirs.

How long had she wandered? She often wondered if the curse yet blessing that was time had been stripped from her being, fating her to travel in mindless agony on a journey that had no conceived beginning or end, for with the lack of time, there would be no end... and also no beginning. The thought often plagued her as the death that was cold crept closer and closer to her soul, for if there was no beginning for her, if time had been drawn from her side, would she forget her past? Her roots?

Would she forget herself?

A gust of piercing wind, the very breath of Death for it’s ethereal chill, forced the air from her lungs and broke her from her reverie. After gasping and struggling to fill her lungs once more, she drew a ragged breath and stumbled for her efforts, hitting the ground with a hard motion. She was still for a precious moment, but soon shook with not only the effects of cold, but with tears.

An angel’s tears.

Fallen or no, they still bore great power, exiled or exalted they still held their potency. An angel’s tears. Renowned for their healing or their curse, it was said that they who held the tears of an angel would be granted one wish. It was up to the angel whether the wish was granted to the bearer’s favour... But Serai... She wept to be alone, she wept for the pain of the cold, she wept for the hurt of her exile. Her tears were bitter, they would do no mortal good.

She wept softly, despite her great and gnawing pain, pulling herself now with her arms, dragging her unclothed body across the frost-bitten earth, leaving a trail of blood and tears. It could hardly be assumed that she would remain unnoticed in such a state, and soon, there was a shadow in her wake.

She neared a clearing, a place where the rough path she was following ended. She felt a strange, yet subtle, attraction to the place, a feeling that she must enter in. Ever wary despite the yearning in her heart to enter the place, she fought her way to her knees, pushing herself up on her hands and letting her head hang. Her breath was quick even though the exertion was light. She knew she could not last much longer.

The promise of warmth and fire in the depths of Hell seemed appealing to her as she shivered helplessly and alone amid the dying trees of an abandoned forest, lost to the world it would seem. Corrupt her heart it would, yes, but at least the burning freezing agony of the creeping death that was antagonising her would be finished. She shivered violently, nearly losing her balance. But she could not go there, she couldn’t give in to the temptation that had ruined so many of her bothers and sisters, no, she would suffer her fate.

Maybe then she would be redeemed in their eyes, if only for a moment.

She closed her eyes, mustering her strength. Something waited for her in the clearing, she knew this, but she did not want to enter in crawling. She would walk. Without any grace or ease, she pushed and wobbled her way to her full height, standing as defiant as a death chilled, exiled angel could. She nearly fell several times, only catching her balance as trees supported her, always seeming almost out of grasp, yet she always ever made it.

At last she stood on the cleaning’s edge. There was no visible presence in its circle, but she was not fooled, she knew something dwelt therein, she knew it was there for her and her alone. Drawing a deep breath, and then coughing violently for it due to the ice in the air, she pushed herself from the supporting trees and limped shakily towards the center. It was still green in the clearing, winter’s frost had not yet claimed the last fair blades of green grass. It seemed healing to her feet and soon she could control her steps though still limping. In the center was what appeared to be a brook, yet no water flowed in or out.

A brook of frozen glass.

She shuddered at it, it was death to her, the chill, and this silent stream embodied everything frozen, everything fatal to her kind. And yet; and yet it was not unpleasant though she stared into Death’s own eyes, she was not afraid. Just frozen. Without warning her legs failed her and she found herself sprawled across the cleaning’s grass filled floor.

“Serai...” She jumped, shivering all the more. The voice was cold and ethereal, chilling and draining, yet strangely hopeful and mournful all at once. “I am here.”

The shadow materialised from the woods’ somber cloak, coming into the light birthed of the near-winter sun that shone feebly into the clearing. With a distinct grace it was wisked by the wind into a human form, though it’s skin was paler than any mortal’s and it’s hair white as the winter sky. Eyes of liquid sunlight blazed forth from the distinctively masculine face, revealing a kingly face bearing fair features.

With the face revealed, Serai knew for whom she had waited, and her tears did not cease. This was Ilieth, Winter’s Keeper.

“I know you fear me, angel of warmth and life, and customarily it would be so, but you, Serai, have no need to fear unless you fear the sweet release of journey’s end.” He knelt, the white of his robe banishing whatever grass it fell on, it’s delicately embroidered boarders trailing snow and crystals of ice. “You are punished enough.”

Serai forced her fast numbing body up so she also knelt, refusing to let herself become vulnerable, and yet the same force that had drawn her into the clearing tore at her heart, begging her to trust him, begging her to let him have his way. She opened her mouth to speak, but found she could not. She narrowed her eyes and focused on Ilieth’s blazing ones.

;:Speak, I’m listening:; his voice was clear in her mind.

;:What do you want? What would you have me do?:;

;:You suffer, I can end your pain, I can end your journey, bring you freedom once more:;

;:You mean to kill me;: Involuntarily, Serai found herself trying to move backwards, but found that she had no dominion over her hands or feet anymore.

Ilieth’s face darkened, yet it was not with anger nor malice, but with sorrow ;:call it what you will, I mean to free you:; His eyes met hers once more, searching for her reply. But Serai was silent. ;:Serai?;:

Her face was wrought with the essence of confusion and a torn will. She wanted, yearned, and longed for the freedom that was offered to her. But still she clung to life. Life? What was this that she called ‘life’? She suddenly wondered. Was it waiting in morbid anticipation for inevitable death? Was it this period of unspeakable agony and rejection? She shook violently. She had made her choice.

Ilieth saw this and knew her decision. There were tears again on her face, tears trailing in quickly frosting patterns as they froze with her skin. She could not speak, she could not walk, she couldn’t even move. Paralyzed she could only let her eyes speak her ascent. He was right, she was suffering. Too pure for Hell, too pure for the chill of this world, an outcast of Heaven. There was no place for her, no freedom. Except that which was offered her.

He moved over her, his tears mingling with her own. ;:Why... you... do... this?:; her voice, broken and barely audible whispered with the nearly the last of her strength into his mind. ;:Because, Serai, because you suffer. Because,:; his eyes burned into her soul, warming it. He paused, his face inches from her own, laden with such a sorrow that even Serai’s heart broke, and yet possessed by some secret joy that filled her veins with a rush of hope, ;:because:; he drew her frozen body into his chill arms and brought her into his embrace, tilting her face so he could look into her eyes, ;:because I’m here and can’t let you suffer. Because, my dear, forgotten angel, I love you too much:; With those words he brought her lips to his, draining the very last of her strength and setting a frost in her veins. Her eyes closed gently, and her body relaxed as he released her from his arms, gently placing her upon the frozen stream.

The frost spread across her body, knitting into a covering, adorning her ears and arms and throat with crystals chipped from the very clouds, clothing her naked body with garments birthed of ice. Then Ilieth stood and bowed gently to the ice clad body lying on the frozen stream, and she and it began to fade, dispersing with the falling snow. He closed his eyes, the same mix of mourning and hope splayed across his features.

She was free, she no longer suffered. He raised a hand to the heavens, and that which had faded was freed into the clouds, into the snow.

The tears of a fallen angel, the tears of winter’s own, mingled into the silence of an early snow.