Ice Warrior

She is heading for the east, on instinct with a few memorized prayers in mind and a bittersweet lullaby. Soft lips linger on her hands, where blood is written over.

The vociferous susurration of the wind against her hair, against her ears drummed down into her – a poisonous feeling of not knowing where she is and knowing she should be recoiling with guilt.

But she still stomps over the ruins, over the ash, as she blanches and wills herself she isn’t going to faint. Her pulse rhymes with the wind, and the hush of the drag of her sword impales down on her like the world to Atlas. Yet it also encourages her to be who she is – a warrior of all things. Mayhaps the only female one at the time. It’s a horrendous thought but she will have to fight with it clouded in front of her eyes.

She lives vicariously through the gods.

The cold is like acid sinking into her bones. She looks for litanies to spew, but none come. She can feel the Winter, the Ice Spirit, pass through the trees; the spirit used to be accompanied by tasty rumors – the wildest one drawing the lads closer. Winter is a woman, they say – a mortal once, a writer had quipped. It began as a fantasy, but more and more people of all ages started to ride by and share what they had witnessed.

She is beautiful, they said. She is to be feared, some said.

The female warrior’s name is unknown. But she is known to strangers as Li – the dark, dauntless girl who is very acquainted with the evening stars. The willowy female warrior to be banished at the age of seventeen.

Li’s spine is caked with shivers and they run through her in a queue.

Winter’s breath is deadly, minty, lovely. She dances poignantly.

Li has her sword poised over her shoulder.

Winter washes over her and encompasses her in rest. But she doesn’t rest, she trudges.