"What is this?"

"Snow."

Crona stares at the sky, at the endless collapsing dots of white. They almost seem enchanted by it, their mouth agape. It's so strange to witness. They just stand there, their body rushing blood around to keep them warm.

Medusa cares little for it. It feels as if a needle is being pricked into her skin every time one of the snowflakes melts into her arms. She shakes her head, and walks back into the opening to their current dwelling, miserable and dry; just as she prefers it.

There was no demand of them to return with her. They stand planted, letting the soft white specks fall onto their clothes, trying to imagine how things like this can happen. Eventually, they sulk back into the warm familiarity of the closest thing they have to home. She's whittling away at some sort of magical relic, something they couldn't even begin to understand. They press their pale, bony hand against one of the walls, the cracks in the concrete spewing a terribly harsh wind. They wonder if she knows about it, as they sit in the corner, like they usually do.

…

The blizzards outside are getting worse and worse. The whole place is getting cold, but they don't mind it. They can't really figure out why she's so haggard and nervous. When it gets particularly bad, she emerges from her room, just to drag them into it, collapsing into a corner of the room, hugging them tightly. Something about their body being warm or whatever. They don't really pay attention to that very much, defaulting to simply passively doing whatever she wants as she looks like she's on the verge of passing out. It's nice, though. They feel something they haven't felt yet. Something warm inside of them, something that isn't their blood. It's so different than everything else they've experienced. They fall asleep in her arms for the first time in their life, going to sleep without the usual horrific dread they usually do.

They wake to find themselves slumped in the corner of their room, like they usually have. She must've moved them while they were sleeping. They can hear her working in the room over, even though the cold barely seems to have subsided. They begin their chores, wondering if it'll happen again. They hope it does. Anything to feel like that again.

It's later that night when she drags them awake, slumping into their collective corner in her room, her quivering arms wrapped tightly around their frail pulsating body. They fall asleep quickly afterwards. After a month or so of this, the great storm above their abode calms down, and everything deteriorates back into what it once was. The yelling, the quiet disdain, the solitary confinement. They lie in the fetal position after one bad incident, staring into the void of the room like they always do, Ragnarok grasping around them while swearing like he always did. They've figured out how the weather works, at least. As long as they stay here, they figure, surely that would happen again, if it got cold enough.

They don't really know what it means. They can dream, though.

...