It was cold, bitterly cold, and two children were walking together. The boy had one hand shoved in his coat, but his other hand, slightly puffy from a mild case of frostbite, was tightly holding on to his little sister’s hand. She had his mittens on, though they were obviously too big for her – the boy had to wrap the cord twice around her wrist before they would stay on.
“Where are we now, Tarin?” the little girl said. Her voice sounded sulky, but Tarin knew she wasn’t. They had walked too far for her to sulk anymore, and besides, he knew how to read her moods now. She was just tired of stumbling. He smiled at her, snowflakes bouncing off his nose.
“We’re far away.”
“How far?”
“Very far.”
She thought about this hard, her face scrunched up, and nodded, rubbing her hands together. It didn’t really help any – her mittens were fastened on too tightly and she could not warm her hands.
“Why are we running away?”
“Because we have to run. Otherwise, we’ll die.” When she looked confused, he said more gently, “They would have killed us. Remember what they did to Mother? Remember what they did to Father? If they found us, they would do the same thing. We can’t stay home anymore. It’s too dangerous.” The little girl looked up at his face skeptically and then frowned.
She didn’t understand.
Tarin sighed and tugged her arm. “Come on, let’s keep moving.” He stepped forward, but she didn’t budge.
“Tarin, why did we have to leave?”
“What?”
“Are we going to die?”
“Naija!” He was about to yell at her for being so stupid, when suddenly he stopped. He didn’t want to yell. Not at her. Besides, her nose was starting to look red and she was squinting, trying to keep the snow out of her face. She was just tired. They were both tired. He sighed and stood up straighter. “No, we are not going to die, Naija.”
She looked down at her feet. Tarin had made sure that she wore some boots since he knew the slippers would shred after a couple of days, but the boots were much too big for her little feet and though he stuffed all the socks he could on her tiny feet, he still knew about all her blisters.
“Tarin?” she finally said. “I’m cold.”
“Hush.” He squeezed her hand tighter, though he doubted she could feel inside of her mitten, and tried to give her a reassuring grin. “It’ll be okay.”
They walked farther on the road. It was a slow walk. The road hadn’t been cleared, of course, and though some of the snow was slick and icy, other parts were soft and every once in a while, Tarin or Naija would fall into the snow. If it was Naija, then it was easy and Tarin would just fish her out, but if Tarin fell, then…
Tarin tried not to fall. His eyes scanned the ground and he avoided the soft snow patches as much as he could, preferring to walk on the more glistening parts, which he hoped were ice. It was getting colder and the sun began to fall past the trees. Tarin felt sleepy, but he didn’t let up, singing songs to Naija as they stumbled on. The songs were from home and he had learned them from his music tutor, before the revolution, of course. Sometimes, if Naija knew the song she would join in, but most of the time he was alone. He tried to keep the songs as even as possible so they would be good to march to, and he quickly lost track of time. It was only when Naija stopped when he looked up through the snowflakes.
“Naija?”
“There’s a building.”
He wiped off his eyes and, to his right, he saw a tiny stone farmhouse. At first he stiffened. He had chosen this road, not because it was easier but because it was safer. Over here, the revolution had picked up greatly and many people had traveled to the west to fight. He had hoped that they would stay there for the winter, far away from them. The last thing he wanted was to have someone see them, the royal children, walking along on their road, especially in the weakened state they were in. Tarin was not quite sure about what they would do if they saw them, but he didn’t want to think about it too much.
For a moment, he just stood there still, watching the house intently. Nobody was inside – otherwise, there would be a fire roaring and smoke would be pouring from the chimney. But it was quiet. He guessed that the family had moved out west for the revolution and had left their farmhouse unguarded.
Tarin didn’t want to go in. It wasn’t polite. But they were cold and their situation was desperate. Besides, the owners of the farmhouse would never know. They would make sure to clean it up nicely before they ever left.
“I think it’s abandoned,” he said to his sister. Then he turned to Naija and tried to smile. “It looks like we’ll have somewhere warm to sleep tonight.”
Naija smiled.
They stumbled through snow, each step taking much longer than it should, but the stone farmhouse was getting closer and closer and, for the moment, that was enough. Still, it was hard to move, and the closer they got the slushier the snow was until they reached the entryway. Tarin was about to go in the farmhouse when suddenly Naija tugged on his sleeve. Or tried to – her hands were bundled up tightly. “Tarin? What’s that?”
She was pointing at a wheel set in front of the house. It was not a particularly interesting decoration, though it did look pretty in the snow – icicles hung from it and made the frozen wheel sparkle. For a minute, Tarin paused, breathing on his hands. Then he shrugged. “It’s a wheel.”
“What for?”
“I don’t know. Come on, let’s go inside.” He was about to push open the door, but then Naija frowned.
“We should knock.”
“What?”
“It’s not polite to go in without knocking, right?” She looked at him pleadingly – her little nose was purple. “We should knock.”
“Very well.” Tarin sighed and then rapped his puffy hand onto the door. “Hallo?”
It was quiet.
He turned back to Naija. “I don’t think anybody’s here.”
“Shh!” Her head was turned to the door. Then she nodded solemnly. “Let’s go in.”
Tarin gave her a funny look, but he pushed open the door. It was quiet and cold. Off to the corner, a wood stove was there, but only a small stack of wood was beside it. Tarin rushed to check its condition, his red puffy hands fumbling the wood. Suddenly he smiled. “It’s still dry!” he cried happily. “We can start a nice roaring fire and get dry and warm again. Wouldn’t you like that, Naija?”
She frowned, looking at something away on the other side of the room. “Hello?” she asked softly.
It was then that Tarin realized who she was talking to. A woman, sitting on a rocking chair, was seated right behind them, her eyes gently closed, holding a small bundle in her lap.
Tarin felt his insides twist.
“I’m sorry…” he began, when Naija glared at him. Slowly, very slowly, she crept up to the woman. It was then Tarin realized that her black hair and eyebrows were slicked over and her hands too rigid.
She had frozen to death.
“Naija?” he said gently. But she ignored him, standing up on her tiptoes to unveil the bundle in her arms. There, in the soft blanket, was a little baby with tiny black hair, also iced over. Naija frowned and put the blanket back, critically looking at the woman and child.
“Where’s his daddy?”
“At war, perhaps.” His voice sounded weak.
Naija thought about this for a moment before nodding seriously. “I think they died.”
This was more than Tarin could take. He stumbled outside, away from Naija, and shivered, holding his face in his hands. It was stupid, so stupid. She had died, and for what reason? The stupid revolution. If her husband was there, then this wouldn’t happen. She would have never died and a plume of smoke would be rising up from her chimney, as it should haven been. And then…
And then?
Tarin sunk to his knees and sobbed.
Naija came out after a minute. She watched him cry and then put her little hand on his shoulder. “Tarin? Are you okay?”
He smiled and moved to squeeze her hand, tears still glistening his eyes. They stayed like that for a while until finally Tarin stood up on shaky legs. He stared at the frozen wheel, such a unique decoration, before drawing his jacket closer. “This is a strange world,” he muttered, wiping his nose with his frozen hand.
Naija hugged him.
For a minute they stood like that. Then Naija broke away from him. “Will we keep going?”
He glanced at the door once and then sighed. “Yes, we’ll keep going.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.” Tarin tried to smile. “Is that okay?”
She nodded. “I think so.”
This time Tarin did smile. He helped redo her mittens, which had come loose since he had fastened them last.
“Come on, let’s go.”
Having walked in snows of all sorts, only once have snowflakes been icy enough to actually bounce off my nose, and that was a few weeks ago when it was actually frozen drops of rain. So you might want to mention that this was not a normal, feathery kind of snow.
Let me know when you post more!
But...! The Unicorn Killers is next! 
Gender:
Points: 3491
Reviews: 3821