There is a time for everything. A time for sorrow and grief. A time for joy and laughter, for fear and courage. However, to err is human, and in our imperfection we sometimes feel the wrong thing at the wrong time. I steady my breaths. My heart and mind war over what to feel. I _think_ I should be afraid, but I’m not. My heartbeat thumps behind my ears and I choke down my excitement. The last time I stood before these jagged rocks, I was terrified. I knocked on this door once before, and my hand quivered with panic. But that was before I met the man inside. I was lost and cold. My skin was sliced by thorns and my feet blistered and raw from wandering the Black Woods. I had nowhere else to turn. But today, there’s nowhere I’d rather be. I slow my steps and steady myself as I approach the door, the stone path slick from freezing rain. Today, I knock eagerly, paying no mind to the whisper of uncertainty in my head. Hinges creak and warmth pours through the door to mingle with the cold. I drag my gaze up a slender but solid frame clad in black, and peer into dark eyes that shimmer with amusement. I hold my breath. His lips slowly curl into a wicked smile that dimples his pale cheeks and bares his pristine teeth. A deep, velvety sound swims in my ears. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t return, Miss Evera. Please, come in.”

She has taken everything from me. Her porcelain skin glows with all her youth but mine is rough from years of enduring life’s relentless blows. Her gentle hazel eyes glimmer with joy while mine are dull with a dark sheen of reality. She runs and jumps, laughs and sings with the rising sun each morning, but I awake to aching knees and overdue bills. She jokes with my husband, and his eyes are soft when he wraps her in his arms. When he speaks to me, his brow is pinched together and he rubs his temples. Her legs are long and her stomach flat. Behind her smiling little lips, her teeth are quirky and precious, while mine are coffee-stained and painfully straightend. But it’s not enough. If I would’ve known all those years ago that this is what it would be like, I never would have done it. If I would’ve known that every single day of my life, I’d have to watch my daughter prance around, a carbon copy of me in my prime, I never would have begged my husband to try for a child. She is a constant reminder of what I have lost.

The snow that fell in the still of the morning is now stained red and steaming with the warm blood of fallen soldiers. The undisturbed blanket of white is now trampled and muddled under feet propelled by panic. Which is typical, but this particular battle is gruesome. Neither side has been forgiving, but fortunately, we are much more savage than they are. They expected a meeting to discuss the rules of engagement and truces at nightfall. Presumably handshakes and kisses as well. We showed up three days early. We attacked at night. It was my idea. I earned my rank by being a man with more… rebellious tendencies. I’ve always enjoyed the atrocities of war and excelled at committing war crimes, but this is… unsettling. They are severely lacking in all aspects, but apparently they lack able-bodied men the most. Elderly men and even some women fight with ferocity, but to no avail. We are slaughtering them. I wipe the sweat from my brow, and sweep the field for my next opponent. A petite frame whirls around in sheer chaos. Her brown hair is weaved tightly in a braid that slings from side to side, and her flushed cheeks are peppered with freckles. I stalk toward her and one of my men as they fight to the death, and much to my dismay, I’m not sure whose triumph I’d bet on. My lips curl when she slashes and stabs her way to victory. “You’re a feisty one, aren’t you?” I tease. She shifts to face me, extending her sword with both hands in front of her, eyes wild with rage. _Cute_. She swings. I dodge. Again and again until she’s flustered, furious and… sad? “Why are you crying?” I ask, confused. Women are confusing. “What? I’m-I’m not-“, she exhales sharply. “My father passed in the last battle fighting you _scum_,” she grits her teeth, “I’m here in his place.” Her shoulders square and her spine stiffens, clearly reminding herself of her mission. My sword rests on my shoulder as I peer down at her, despite the screams of agony and metal clanking all around us. “I’m sorry for your loss, miss.” I bow, my condolences surprisingly genuine. I should be killing this woman, but she’s peaked my interest instead. Judging by her sweeping gaze, I’ve peaked hers as well. One of my bumbling foot soldiers scrambles behind me, huffing and panting like a fat, lazy dog. “Sir. SIR!” “Ugh, what?” I respond sharply, rolling my eyes. Peeling away from my little warrior, I toss my hands in frustration, gesturing for him to spit it out. “A volley, sir. We’re sending a volley. We need to move.” I wave him off, a single thought pounding in my head. I glance over my shoulder to find her eyes wide, searching left and right for shelter, of which there’s none. _Screw it._ _I’m doing it._ I reach out my blood stained hand, and she hesitates before handing hers over. Looking beyond the fear in her eyes, I command her attention to my face, and my face alone. “We have to run now, okay?”