64. Frost

Mornings are when she misses him most.

The bright winter morning pours through her window and makes it hard for her to see. As she adjusts to the morning her eyes try to focus on the wood paneling above her. The ceiling is strong and sturdy like the hands who built it. These walls were more than fit to protect any chief and his family.

It is chilly in her home; a fire has not yet been lit, and she is sure they have just received another heavy snow. She wraps the furs around her tighter and turns to her side to seek warmth.

Beside her the mattress is bare. Relenting the slightest bit of skin out into the cold, she touches the space. No one has slept in this spot for quite some time.

It is then that she remembers that it has been years since she has slept by his side. Her hand reaches farther and her fingers barely touch the edge of the bed; had he always taken so much space?

She stays like that a moment wishing for some phantom warmth to comfort her. Provide her some recollection of what it was like to wake next to the incarnate of fire himself.

Instead the cold air lingers, and she has to retreat back into the confines of her fur.

Her body shivers; she is always cold now, and there is no way to warm the chill that plagues her soul.