Winter is a Strange Time – A Tale of Love, Risk & Magic
Winter is a strange time.
That’s what her mother always said. She would whisper it like a warning while brushing out her daughter’s dark, tangled hair, each stroke deliberate, every word heavy with memory. “Winter freezes more than just lakes and rivers,” she said. “It freezes wings, it freezes hearts. It’s the season when your father disappeared.”
And that much, at least, was true. Her father had vanished in the heart of winter. Whether the cold had swallowed him whole or he had simply walked into it, never to return, remained uncertain.
But the girl—young by Fae standards—suspected the truth was less poetic than her mother liked to believe. Everyone in the manor knew he had once served the prince. It was never said openly, but knowledge has a way of drifting through silence like snowflakes in wind. She had found out, unofficially—of course—which was why she had been punished. The punishment still lingered, stitched across her lips in silver thread.
Some claimed the prince had “disappeared” him, the same way people “disappear” unwanted secrets. Others believed he had run off with one of his many mistresses, abandoning duty and daughter alike. Either way, he was gone.
And still, her mother was right about the wings.
They changed in winter—became fragile, glassy things. Where once there was strength and shimmer, now there was brittleness and bite. The gossamer structures shimmered like frost, but they were less magic, more memory. The cold turned them into icy veils of pain. Even the Queen’s strongest winged soldiers struggled to fly. Were it not for the kingdom’s clever reliance on red-breasted robins—massive ones, trained and tamed—the Fae would be stranded.
Hers was stabled at the manor, nestled in the warmth of straw and steam. As she walked the corridor to the stables, she passed servants—wingless ones, mostly. Fae stripped of flight as punishment for crimes or disobedience. Their shame visible, branded by absence. Yet her mother, ever defiant in her eccentricity, chose to employ them. Said they were no worse than anyone else. Perhaps better.
Miranda, her wingless maid, greeted her with a curtsy. Soon, for the annual Festival of Reversal, they would switch roles. One day a year, nobles and servants traded places. Improper, certainly. But tolerated, even encouraged. After all—winter is a strange time.
The robin, warm and alert, greeted her with a soft trill. She stroked its neck feathers, whispered a name she’d never shared with anyone. The saddle—rich maroon leather embossed with her family’s sigil, twin birds soaring through holly and red berries—waited nearby. Too recognizable. She smeared mud over the coat of arms and wiped her hands on an old towel.
Mounting the bird came easily now. Three centuries of practice—even if that was considered young for a Fae. Too young, some said, to have been presented to the Court. But presented she had been, just a decade ago. Her betrothal followed swiftly—some gentry noble whose name she forgot but whose influence protected her.
Most would not dare harm property that belonged to someone so highly placed.
Most.
Not the prince. He broke what he wanted, when he wanted, with little fear of consequence.
She wrapped her wings in muslin—layer after layer—to protect them from the stabbing cold. Her long skirts were traded for tight, warm leggings. Her scarf went into the saddlebag; better hidden than seen. She dared not wear anything too distinct. The wind could snatch secrets just as easily as it could a scarf—and there were always those willing to follow whispers through snow.
Who knew who might follow her?
Winter is a strange time.
The bare trees offered little cover. Their limbs, stripped of summer’s protection, stretched like skeletal fingers across the sky. Yet the emptiness was its own shield—no one could hide here. Anyone who tried to follow her would be spotted long before they got close.
Today, no one followed.
It was too cold. Bitter even by winter’s standards. The sky hung low and heavy, a great gray curtain draped over the world. Not even the patrols were out. Her wings trembled beneath the muslin. Even madness would pause on a day like this.
Her journey was uninterrupted.
She landed near the Veil, that ever-shifting boundary between her world and another. The air shimmered as she reached toward it—rippled like water disturbed by a stone. A hand met hers from the other side. Warm. Firm.
And then—there they were.
A Mortal.
Her Mortal.
They stepped through the Veil, pulled by her hand. Their face, pale in the winter light, looked at her with worry. Gently, they reached out and ran a finger along her lips, counting the silver threads one by one. The price she had paid for knowing too much. For speaking out when she should’ve stayed silent. She gave a shrug, sorrowful and small.
The Mortal opened their mouth to speak. Then paused. Rethought.
Instead, they said, “You should come with me. Leave this place. Come away.”
The words hung in the cold.
She froze.
Not because of the temperature, but because of the question. It was dangerous. Impossible. A betrayal to her kind, her Court, her future husband—her everything. She should say no. Should turn and run before the trees remembered how to speak and reported her to the Queen herself.
But then again…
Winter is a strange time.
The Mortal held out their hand.
She looked at it. At them.
And did not run.
Moral of the Story:
Even in the harshest season, strange choices bloom. Winter makes hearts tremble, but it also dares them to leap. When the world is frozen, sometimes all it takes is one touch to melt everything you thought you knew.
