I can’t remember what it felt like to be warm.
Surely I was, once. Before the winter, before this new Land, before I woke. Back home, when I slept, surely I wasn’t this cold.
He is warm. Always. What he is I am not. I am defined by him, as the space around him. He is noble, I am ruthless. He gives and heals, I take and hurt. The strange new children follow him out of love. The only one of them to follow me was bewitched by words and sweetmeats.
I won’t win. How could I? Winter always falls to spring. Ice was made to thaw. It can only be winter and never Christmas for so long.
But still, I fight him. He approaches now, my captive, shorn of his mane and somehow even more terrible in his wretchedness. The altar is cold and my knife is sharp. His warm blood is on my hands. I don’t feel anything at all.