its about a traveler making her way through a snowy road, her mind and spirit broken
| The forest was silent except for the whisper of the wind through the branches. White blanketed everything, the stony ground, the barren trees, the solemn mountains. The traveler crunched down the path, leaving depressions in the white snow, marring its perfect surface.
Snow drifted lightly down from the leaden sky, alighting with the dead tree branches, on the cold boulders already half hidden, and in the prints left in the snow by the traveler's boot, attempting to heal the damage done. Snow drifted lightly down onto the traveler, settling onto her graceful shoulders, her brown leather pack, and in her long auburn hair.
She no longer brushed it away; she had long since stopped caring. On and on she trudged, one foot in front of the other, in an endless cycle as bleak as the snowy woods. She trudged on, yet trudged gracefully, never altering her pace or faltering from her path. There was a certain grace in the way she moved, shoulders back, her head held high, arms swinging lightly from side to side, graceful legs carried her across the snow, leaving only the prints to tell of her passing.
Thick, wavy auburn hair fell from a perfectly oval shaped face, boasting full lips, a proud nose, and deep brown, watchful, and intelligent eyes. But the eyes had lost their spark. Once eyes that had let no detail or fact escape, once the eyes of a keen warrior. Now the eyes had become dull, lackluster things. The spark of intelligence and personality had left for some dreamy place and could not be recalled.
She walked on, one foot in front of the other.
A simple leather vest covered the brown silk tunic she wore, tight fitting, hinting at the sensuous curves beneath. The loose sleeves of the tunic swished around slender yet powerful arms. Brown silk breeches with sown on leather pads fit snugly to slender legs. A steel sword, beautiful and deadly like its bearer, hung at the hip in a plain brown scabbard, forgotten, just like the snow. Once it had been important, the center of her life, what she lived and would eventually die by. Now it hung useless and forgotten.
The sword hung lightly in its scabbard, swaying slightly. Forgotten, it longed to be drawn again, to feel the sureness of grip, the steadiness of mind and body wielding it, but it hung forgotten. It called, desperately out to its bearer, to again take hold of it and feel her former strength, but its call went unanswered.
Snow gently fell down on the wooded path that no one but the broken one tread. The tree was still, not a breeze disturbed the snow from their branches. Not a creature stirred, nor a bird flew, life was dead.
The traveler, once the great warrior and heroine of a nation, trudged through the lonely deathscape, broken and beyond recollection. The Sword yearned to be drawn, to be again swung in righteous fury, but the desolation and loneliness pressed in, drowning out its call in a vast nothingness.
The wanderer, purposeful in stride but not in mind, stroke on through the eternal whiteness of desolation, unable to hear the calls reaching out to her. The silence was complete.
In the distance, through time and space, there could be heard the cackle of laughter.