WHEN SOMETHING COLD COMES TO CALL
by Tari Gwaemir
A winter day.
Outside, the air was thick with snow, the sort of snow that fell like powder and rested lightly on branches and eaves.
"You're in a quiet mood today, Will."
"It's a quiet sort of day." He leaned back against Bran and looked at the ghost of their reflection in the window, arms entwined, brown hair next to white.
Reflections were dangerous, as were most things in winter. There were a hundred ways that their hazy image against the snow-splattered glass could be used against him, against the both of them. But there was no more Dark or Light to wage secret battles in the cold of midwinter. Only him, with his memories, and Bran, without them.
"It's warmer by the fireplace," Bran whispered against his ear and took him by the hand. Will followed; their reflection disappeared.