Winter's traveled through plenty of snow storms. Felt specks of ice hit her face like shards of glass, broken bottles. She knows how to handle the cold, how long to breathe into her cupped hands to keep them warm. She knows how to disperse her weight over soft snow, making sure not to sink to her knees.
But if Winter is bad at one thing, it's walking against wind. And it's showing now of all times, as she makes her trek toward the previous Maiden's cell.
The hallway had been cold the very second she'd stepped into it, shutting the door behind her and listening to it close with the sound of breaking bones. Fair snow had drifted in from... somewhere, decorating the halls with a light flurry that only seemed to grow stronger the closer it got to shadows. The wind, entering the corridor from the same entrance as the snow, felt stronger than a pair of calloused hands, rough and tense only to linger for a few seconds at a time. And that's how Winter found out about the blizzard outside.
She knows she doesn't have very long before General Ironwood returns to her room, meaning to check up on the bandaged woman as if it'd fix what had happened, as if they could divise a new plan other than sending the team out with little instruction and blurry intent. But it wouldn't, and they couldn't. And there's nothing either of them can do about it now.
Winter's steps are gentle, flittering. Her socks give her soundless cover, although– she doesn't really need it. Once the corridor shuts, not a noise goes in or out. And while she's not so sure how that will end up for her, she's not complaining at all.
The hall looks so much more broken than usual. Instead of the dull walls and bright lights, yelling tales of corruption and planned secrecy, everything is dark. Papers try to rest on the tile ground, only to be bothered and tossed up with every gust of wind that shrieks the words it can read on each page. Doors have swung open, refusing to move, like they're willing the ruined atmosphere to leave, to go, to set itself free. Winter wonders if the Fria's soul is there somewhere, mixed within the atoms.
She doesn't know if she wants it to be. Doesn't know if she wants to be seen in her state, cut and bruised and quite broken– not completely, not in need of fixing. Just quite.
Her muscles ache with every step, her ankles threaten to fold. And with every strand of loose hair that brushes by her ear, she thinks of the sound of a blade, belonging to hands warmer than fresh ash, and a face masked with stone and a scar.
She doesn't let her memory linger for very long.
She has this corridor memorized now, with how many times she's walked through it to check on the woman she planned to take power from. Twice a day, whether it be a quick peek or a long, lingering date with silence from the observation deck. It was always twice a day. And it felt odd not having someone to check on, like someone had cleared her schedule without telling her.
Maybe it would've been different if she were the Maiden, if she'd had the time, the opportunity to do what she was supposed to. But she'd never know now, would she?
No.
She'd settle on that thought for a while if she could. She'd think about what she could've done, what she should've done. Not in a self depreciating light, not entirely. Not purposefully. She just likes to make little tweaks, little changes in past plans, so she knows what to do differently if the issue ever comes up again. And even though this one surely won't, she itches to go through the motions, and it nearly hurts more than every cut in her skin combined.
But she can't. Because something feels off.
Something feels wrong. Like a dull knife, a swollen lip. Bullets missing targets, burrowing into the wood behind them. Flames are burning upside down, and cinder falls in the wrong direction, floats away from ice aflame.
Something's not right. And Winter always trusts her gut.
Her strides quicken without warning, carrying her body hostage with each step, but she's not focused on that at all; she's just trying her best to keep balanced. Her ankles weave, her heart skips with every passing second and her brain, for once in so long, is completely silent.
Because she's terrified.
And as she steps closer and closer to Fria's room, the wind grows stronger, tilting her body like hurricanes tilt trees. Snow falls less like sugar and more like leaves, thick piles that leave freezing water soaking into every soft hair, dripping down pale skin. She doesn't even notice it.
And by the time she gets into the room, opened wide from the hole in its ceiling, its walls– she doesn't notice how strong the storm has grown, either, doesn't notice the force of the blizzard.
Because all she's focused on is the woman sitting at the edge of Fria's made hospital bed, legs crossed with so much casualty, it's almost sickening.
Winter's lips part, and she can't hear the words that come out of her mouth. A part of her is convinced her throat is too tense to move. "You."
A head lifts, and it's brunette halo falls in strands around a healed face, matches a seemingly content smirk with ease. "I really did a number on you, didn't I?"
Winter doesn't know what to say. She just stands there, watching. Still not thinking.
Cinder meets the gaze, holds it, albeit more confident, even though she really probably shouldn't be. "Oh, you look exhausted."
The false pity pulls bile from Winter's throat, tasting of cinnamon and gasoline. She purses her lips, straightens her spine, tries to keep the sliver of composure she came in with. "They're not here."
Cinder tilts her head slightly, raises an eyebrow, but still she sits. Poised in the way Winter was taught but learned to forget. "Who?"
Winter stares.
"Oh, them?" The laugh that leaves the brunette's lips is almost honest, but the disgust in the word warns of a lie. "I'm not looking for them."
Winter sighs, raising a hand to rub her temple. "I don't have time for this. What do you want?" Cinder's eyes widen slightly with each word. "What could you possibly have come back here for? There's.Nothing. Left."
"Well, I think the bed is in rather decent condition, really."
"Fuck you." The words are sneered and foreign, lips curled delicately around every syllable like they're scared to meet.
"Crude."
Winter steps forward, nearly growls. "I told you I don't have time for this."
Cinder stands to meet her, unbothered. "Right, right. Busy schedule? Couple of x-rays, right?"
"I could take you down right now. I could call Ironwood in less than a second."
"Then do it." Her eyes seem to glow, burning orbs of fire. "I dare you."
Winter's gaze is strong and steady, carving into the marble before her; it's an earned skill, one she wears proudly. "I'm still debating on taking you myself."
Cinder's responding scoff is painstakingly truthful. "You couldn't take me the first time."
"I'll take you the second."
Slender fingers raise, skin cold and damp, and barely brush along Winter's jaw as they cup the edge of her chin. "Go on, then." The hold tightens for one second, two seconds, three seconds… and drops, pushing her head slightly to the side. "Round two."
Winter lets her head stay where it is, turned and looking just past the other woman's shoulder. She doesn't move, not even when Cinder walks past her and lets a black clothed arm brush over her sore torso. Not even when it makes the pain seem to stop for such a short moment, it'd easily pass as illusion.
"I'll even carry you to the infirmary."
"Why are you here, Cinder?" Winter asks. The words are nearly a whine– not one of immediate complaint.
The shorter woman isn't so quick to answer this time, instead listening to the sound of warm breath colliding with cold air. Finally, she says, "I was waiting."
"For?" Winter turns finally, faces the woman behind her.
Cinder shrugs, indifferent, but her pupils widen more with every single second that passes. "A rematch."
"You—"
Before she can say anything further, Winter picks up on a familiar sound. The sound of sweeping skin, of bones breaking, and then… silence.
Her eyes widen, blue orbs swallowing every neighboring inch of black as her breath catches in her throat.
She reaches for Cinder's arm, pulls her forward and says, quietly, "Get out." She can hear her heart beating wildly over her words, like she's face-to-face with an eighteen wheeler and there's only one road to take.
Cinder's lips lift at a corner, pulling her mouth into that smirk that promises only uncertainty. "Letting me go?"
"Go," she whispers again, pulling her further. "Before I change my mind. Get out."
Steel toed footsteps sound from down the hall, followed by that one voice, deep and gravely. It calls out a name, and it sounds like it knows.
Cinder's eyebrow quirks at the sound, and now she understands. Her face loses it's ease, replaces itself with granite and blue flames, but she allows one more slip, brushing by Winter's ear just to say it. "I'll be back."
And with that, Cinder lifts herself onto the bed, stands, and pulls herself through the gaping hole in the roof, right outside into the blizzard.
Ironwood pokes his head through the doorway just as Winter begins to hear the storm again, unsure as to whether or not Cinder's words were a threat, and praying her fingertips didn't leave burns behind.
Because it sure felt that way.