He could feel the coming of winter with the tip of his tongue. The first sign of its arrival tasted like metal: sharp, powerful, and bitter. So bitter it made his tear-stained face numb and blood-tinted lips dry. Snow gave different impression, however; it was soft and mellow, like a hand that embraced you while you stood alone trying to make do of what happened. Its sweetness lingered hours after its passing, warming you from the strands of your hair to the tip of your toes.
He laughed; a croaking, hollow laugh that echoed into darkness. He hated it. Winter… Winter had the power to remind him of time long past: a time of innocence, a time of glory, and a time when the right option, lead to the tragic end. He was powerless to stop its spell; like the wind itself, winter was a bitter and unstoppable reminder of shed tears and blood. Tears and blood of the brave, of the pure and of the devoted. Tears and blood of those who believed in him. He whimpered. There were time