Page 4 of The Snow Queen

Getting up to her feet, she resolved to make haste and turned, only to hit an unexpected solid form.

Chapter Three

Cursing at her uncharacteristic clumsiness, Eira looked up. And up. And up.

She was not used to feeling small; right now, she did.

It turn out the form had belonged to a man, who stood a good foot above her frame. She took in his features – the strong jaw, the delicate mouth, the forest green eyes and more notably, the long ears.

Not a man, then. An elf.

That did make things marginally better; elves hated her kind, like every other breed of mortals, but she tolerated them more than humans.

They lived longer, for one.

“Careful,” he told her, his smooth, deep voice pleasant, as elves’ generally were, but she could tell, by the expression his face bore, that he’d meant it to be harsh. “Don't make a noise and move this way.”

His eyes were fixed on the poor thirsty bear; Eira might have laughed, if he hadn't been right to fear him. Bears were dangerous.

To anyone who wasn't her, that is.

Eira surprised herself by obeying, letting the hand he'd pushed against her back guide her away.

Soon, they reached the path she was supposed to follow north, but he tried to lead her south; that, she protested against.

“Thank you,” she said politely, hoping against all hope that she'd gone for the right tongue. As his frown didn't deepen, she guessed she had. “But I'm heading that way.”

She gave the general direction of her home, and the elf laughed humorlessly.

“There's nothing, that way.”

She shrugged.

“That's what those who don't care to seek answers say to those who discover wonders.”

“An explorer, then?” He hazarded. “Well, I can believe that. Somehow, I doubt they'd send a spy who looked like you.”

Eira wonderedhowshe looked.

She was well aware of her physical features, but they were perceived differently every time she awoke.

In her youth, she'd been ordinary, quite plain, in comparison to the likes of Aphrodite, Medusa, Frejya and Persephone.

When the other gods were gone, she'd been intimidating; too tall, too graceful, too quick and quiet. Five centuries after, waking from her first long nap, they'd called her a demon; then she'd become a painter’s muse.

She didn't change – hadn't since her first century. Her hair was dark ash, her eyes icy blue. Her skin wasn't pale, ironically; she looked sunkissed, unless she used too much of her power in one go. Then, everything went white, from head to toes.

She glanced at him, trying to determine whether he seemed repulsed, intimidated or attracted, but she saw nothing. The elf was still frowning, trying to make her out, however past his puzzlement, she had no idea what he thought of her.

Perhaps she was ordinary, then?

She was occupying herself with those conjectures when his eyes fell on her ears. He swore out loud.

“You're human,” he assumed – erroneously. “You must be freezing.”

And before letting her answer, he'd removed his own coat and wrapped it around her shoulders.

Her denial fell flat on her lips as the warmth spread through her iced up bones. The material was delightfully warm and smelt tantalizing – pine and musk, mixed with something she couldn't put her finger on. She liked it, though.

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