Archive of Our Own ^beta

When you were a bit younger, you celebrated winter’s arrival. Now, you arrive in winter.

There's the crisp scent of ice in the air and the wind carries a dusting of snowflakes. It's a sharp contrast to the dusty, stale air of the Ruins. The clammy sweat clinging to your sweater is wicked away by the chill.

The first few minutes are always like this. Cold air that nearly makes your nose bleed from the sharpness of it. Icy wind tickling the sweat on the back of your neck. Silence broken by nothing but snowflakes joining their brethren on the ground.

Soon the caress of cold turns to piercing frostbite, sinking into your fingers, face, and feet. The crunch of snow goes from a novelty to a weight as more clumps hang onto your shoes. Your skin all goes pale and cold, fingers popping with every movement of your hand.

And you revel in it, braving on further, pulling an odd sense of pride from your pain. Oh look how tough you are, look how brave. How hardy and steadfast they must be. How determined.

But the most pleasure comes from when the warm air of an inn lobby hits you, barely piercing the cloud of ice clinging to your flushed skin. It comes from kicking off wet shoes and socks and drowning in a massive bed and a sea of blankets, slowly getting toasty and reveling in your rest.