Snow. Frigid and ice cold, yet strikingly beautiful. It's the heavens scattering beauty upon this world. But the world is not really a beautiful place to be.

You see, although Lal Mirch was a firm atheist, she did admit the Buddhism first law of truth. Life is suffering. You heard that right, and you know it's true. The stars are unchangeable. Her destiny was already determined.

The snow has only barley covered the ground, before she falls, tainting the purity with dark crimson. She lies there, and bleeds, her body covered in wounds yet she does not react. Her eyes are empty, dull.

Of course, she can't blame this on anyone other than herself. Being an assassin carries its risks after all.

She's lived for quite a long time. Maybe it's time to end.

The stars are to stay crossed forever.

So there she lies, the snow floating downwards, watching that little bit of magic that she may take away.

Colonello would describe Lal Mirch as snow. Frigid and ice cold, yet strikingly beautiful. That's the scene he saw, when the search party was sent out because Lal didn't come back, when he saw her, buried in the snow, her fiery eyes dying to an ember. Frigid and ice cold.

It's how he felt, after she was brought back, after the doctors had come out of the operating room with grim faces, after her life had left.

Frigid and ice cold.

Yes, the starts were crossed. But he can try. He did try.

It didn't work.

When he saw her, pale skinned and cold, he didn't cry. When he kissed her again, for the last time, he didn't cry.

He smiled, that bright sunshine smile that can melt anything away. He called her name, first gently, then turning into a crescendo of pleads and begs.

But in the end, he wiped his tears away. He can't let her see him cry, after all.

The stars would be crossed.

Even if it's foolish to hope, he still does anyway.

Colonello would describe life as snow. Frigid, ice cold, yet strikingly beautiful.