It should be dark, but there is a bright, pale light illuminating everything despite the blackness of the sky. Beyond the crumbling columns, the sky and horizon melt into a flat sheet of darkness. Here, in the center, though, there is light like starlight on snow, glowing softly from the depths of the very stones beneath your feet. It is the winter light, and even now engorged snowflakes are escaping from the flat black sky to dance at your fingertips.

It is not cold, though it is not warm, either. The snow does not melt when it reaches the ground, but is instead absorbed into the stones; as the snow falls, the light grows brighter, deeper, cooler. The light is everywhere, in everything; the snow clings to your face and hands, and is absorbed until you, too, are glowing like the stones. The winter light fills all things here, confusing the shadows of the snowflakes and creating doppelgangers of your own shadow to dance and flicker on the stones.

The cobbles are worn and cracked in places, though the mortar is intact and no weeds sprout up between them. They are even, though the area they encompass curves gently in a smooth dome. The columns are fluted and wide; your arms would not stretch around them, though two people would find their hands touching easily. They are tall, supported on square bases nearly as tall a you, and they stretch towards the empty sky at least three times as high. The columns, like the cobbles, are old but well kept. Once, they might have supported banners and streamers for a Beltane or Ostara celebration. Now, they support only their own grave weight, and the winter light.

As the snow falls, you can make out new shapes beneath the columns, twisted, shining, beautiful shapes. The snow clings to them, and is not absorbed. They do not glow with the winter light, and their shadows are steady in the glow from the stones. They are cold, unlike the snow that seeps beneath your skin. They are ice sculptures, shining blue and green in the pale gray light, and they stare at you with eyes gone dark long ago. As you stare back, you finally begin to feel the wind that has crept up on you unawares; it is cold and unforgiving, like the eyes of the statues.

When dawn comes, years later, the snow and the winter light are gone. Beneath the tall stone columns, a new statue stands. It will be years before night falls in this place again, before winter comes. Perhaps a passing traveller will admire the sculptures, and the simple grace of the stones. And perhaps that traveller will look into your flat, dead eyes, and wonder who could have placed such a lifelike statue in such an isolated place. And then the traveller will move on, and leave you with the stones to wait once more for the winter light
-------------
Why I should not listen to "Kinda Sorta Fairy Tale" on repeat play. I mean, of the Tori Amos songs on my harddrive, you'd think "Winter" would make me write something like this, but nooooo..."Winter" doesn't make me think of snow at all. "Fairy Tale" does. Strangeness.

But I've been wanting to write about the winter light for a while...I just didn't know it would turn out to be so...sinister. It's not supposed to be evil; it's supposed to be beautiful. *sigh* Guess I'm just in that kind of a mood...

(Still avoiding the Shakespeare paper. *d'oi*)