Page 8 of The Enchanted Frost (The Christmas Chronicles)
CHAPTER 8
Blanche
O ne mistake or moment of regret doesn’t lessen the value of a soul . Frost's words, like a soothing balm, eased the sting of my haunting regrets, offering the first glimmer of light to pierce through the winter overcast that had long shrouded my thoughts.
Yet though I yearned to believe him, his sweet assurances couldn’t fully erase the memory of the anguished way he’d abruptly ended my showcase of memories and stormed away, as if he could no longer bear to be in my presence.
Something unseen had captured his attention from the far edge of the icy room, allowing me a moment to study the tension etched into his handsome profile, illuminated by the slants of thin sunlight, further evidence in addition to the baskets of hailstones of his inner turmoil.
I had no reason to care about the whims of a mystical being, especially when strained relationships defined my life; any semblance of human connection I might have been able to previously claim had vanished upon finding myself in the streets. I had endured my pitiful life alone—forgotten by all the friends who’d never cared for me anymore than I did them—and unaware that anything was missing.
The relentless exposure to winter’s icy elements had numbed not just my body but my heart as well, leaving me past feeling. Yet the loneliness I had buried deep within began to seep through the cracks in my protective shield, reaching out to the first stranger who had ever shown me kindness.
Experiencing companionship for the first time, especially so close to death, was dangerous—it gave me a newfound reason to live, fueling my desperation and making me long for the approval of the very one whose duty it was to claim my soul.
“Will you explain why you left the showcase of my memories so suddenly?” Even with his previous reassurance I wasn’t entirely convinced it had nothing to do with me.
My question beckoned his distant gaze, as if I’d summoned his thoughts from faraway. An extended hesitation preceded his unconvincing answer. “It’s…nothing.”
I frowned. “It seems you’re unpracticed not only in the art of conversation, but also in lying.”
The corner of his mouth lifted slightly, penetrating his somber expression. “I’m afraid that particular skill wasn’t part of my training.” His bashful smile sent an unfamiliar flutter through my heart, a gesture somehow far more endearing than the practiced charm and flowery compliments of all my past suitors.
“Are you lying to spare my feelings?”
He sighed. “Partly, but also because I’d rather not share what’s bothering me. In my eternal experience, I’ve learned there’s no use dwelling on a past that can’t be changed; all one can do is move forward. ”
Such a task was difficult when time was a currency I was rapidly running out of. “I no longer have such a luxury.”
The hint of a smile toying at his lips faltered, causing me to immediately miss it. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to be insensitive to your situation. But as long as you’re still alive, there’s always a chance to progress.”
If only I had some way to measure how many breaths I had left, how many moments were still mine to experience. The question lodged in my throat, too fearful to emerge—until the uncertainty became unbearable.
“Your sudden departure kept me from asking if you discovered what’s holding my soul back.”
He shook his head. “While I’ve managed to gather some information, I feel as though I’m still in the early stages of crafting a snowflake—I’ve formed the outline, but the details remain uncarved, leaving me with an incomplete picture of the life you’ve lived.”
Disbelief momentarily robbed me of words. I’d thought it was obvious what type of person I was—conceited, friendless, at times even cruel—making me wonder if we’d witnessed the same showcase of memories.
Upon noticing my shock he explained further. “Memories only comprise of one aspect of a person; in truth humans are much more complex.”
My brow furrowed. “Yet aren’t we shaped by the experiences that comprise our memories?”
“Perhaps on the surface, but each event is built upon those that came before; without that foundation, everything would unfold in entirely different ways. Don’t judge yourself too harshly for the path you ended up on.”
I longed to believe him, to finally extend the grace I’d denied myself for so long. He had undoubtedly witnessed far more lifetimes than I could ever imagine, and while his experience came solely from observation, I couldn’t begin to comprehend the wisdom he’d gained over the expanse of forever, watching an overview of all human history. With only my own life to measure, I had no way to determine its worth beyond the harsh lens of regret.
Mistakes don’t lessen the value of a soul .
Though the sentiment was healing, it still didn’t explain why he’d left so abruptly, nor the haunted look that overshadowed his once easygoing confidence. But we weren’t close enough for me to press the issue, leaving that mystery unresolved.
As the silence stretched between us, the weight of unspoken questions grew heavier. I realized how much he knew about me—more than anyone else ever had—while I remained almost entirely in the dark about him. The imbalance gnawed at me, a reminder of the distance still separating us despite everything we’d shared.
My sigh once more drew his questioning gaze. “You possess an unfair advantage: you’ve seen my entire life, yet I haven’t learned anything about yours.” I couldn’t fully explain the illogical desire to learn more about him, but if I was to die, I wanted to leave this life knowing more about the only man who’d shown me mercy and understanding, even after uncovering my darkest innermost secrets.
“It would take several human lifetimes to recount an existence that spans an eternity…but there is a tender moment I cherish that I discovered we share while watching your memories.” He tilted his head, silently motioning for me to follow.
I walked after him more willingly this time, puzzling over his statement. Unlike the first time I’d wandered the icy corridors, I wasn’t simply admiring the artistry of each intricate snowy design adorning the shimmering walls; deeper purpose guided each echoing footstep, a yearning to discover more about the enigmatic being who had crafted this breathtaking wonder.
When we reached the library, it felt as if we had stepped into the pages of a wintry fairytale. Large mullioned windows crafted of thin panes of perfectly transparent ice framed breathtaking views of the snowy landscape beyond, where the sheen of white glistened under the sunlight, creating a serene and picturesque backdrop.
The room itself was adorned with touches of winter—delicate snowflake ornaments hung from the chandelier and window frames, while garlands of pine and holly draped the shelves, enhancing the enchanting atmosphere. As we ventured deeper, I noticed that the shelves were filled not with the usual leather-bound volumes, but with books that, like everything else, seemed to be carved from ice. I felt the strong urge to explore these mystical tomes more closely, but was uncertain where to begin or if I would even be able to read such magical books.
I could feel Frost’s anticipatory gaze, as if he was eagerly awaiting my reaction. “It’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.” Though the words felt inadequate to express the extent of my awe, they were apparently sufficient.
His chest swelled. “It’s one of my finest creations.”
Cold prickled my fingertip as I traced the frozen spines lining the shelves we passed. “What is this place?”
“A room containing stories unlike any found in mortal libraries,” he explained. “Because water preserves memory, I used my powers to compose them into ice so that I could keep a record of all the souls I’ve gathered throughout the years. There is one in particular I want to show you.”
At his command, the magic in the air stirred, coalescing into a glimmer of light, like the first star appearing in the night sky. I watched as it floated towards a specific volume on a nearby shelf, beckoning me to follow .
With his nod of permission in response to my curious glance, I drew closer. The light hovered in front of a book bound in a powdery blue cover, with silver embossing that glistened with a magical glow that hinted at the enchanting contents within. Lifting the book out reverently, I carefully turned the glossy pages, each infused with a faint, frosty sheen that was cool to the touch, the texture smooth yet slightly crisp, reminiscent of ice.
My breath caught as I saw the book’s contents—a treasure trove of frosted designs, capturing the artistry of Frost’s handiwork in exquisite detail. Silver filigree adorned the edges, catching the light and highlighting the intricate patterns of frost. The delicate tendrils and crystalline shapes seemed alive, shifting and glistening as if freshly formed. In wonder I traced an exquisite flourish of ice, feeling the cold beneath my fingers that could not melt the magical shapes.
A cool breeze wafted from the book with each turn of the pages, carrying the crisp scent of winter. Each spread showcased different designs that had once graced my windowpanes, ranging from simple, elegant snowflakes to elaborate, sprawling scenes that told a story in frost. Some patterns were geometric and symmetrical, while others were whimsical and organic, like vines of ice curling across the page, capturing the way frost catches the first rays of dawn or glows softly in the moonlight.
As I turned the pages, something niggled at the edges of my memory, a vague sense of familiarity I couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t until I reached a particular design—a swirl of delicate snowflakes intertwined with icy ferns—that the recognition struck me. My heart skipped a beat as I realized why these patterns felt so significant.
They were from my childhood.
A rush of tender memories flooded back, clear and vivid, as if no time had passed at all. I remembered waking each morning in the lavish room where I’d grown up, eagerly running to the window to see the new frost designs that had appeared overnight. I’d always imagined that the frost patterns were created just for me, a secret gift from the winter itself. Deep down I’d known it wasn’t true, but the fantasy had brought me comfort, a small but precious joy in an otherwise lonely childhood.
But now, as I stared at these very same designs perfectly preserved in the book before me, I realized that perhaps my childish fantasy had been more than my girlish longings. Who else could have created something so beautiful? The thought that someone—or something—had crafted these designs with such care and artistry made my heart ache with a strange, bittersweet longing.
I turned another page, my fingers trembling slightly as I traced the familiar patterns. Each design brought with it another fragment of my past containing a precious moment of that innocent joy. The swirling frost, the delicate snowflakes, the intricate vines of ice—they were all pieces of my childhood, carefully preserved as if waiting for me to rediscover the wonder they’d once inspired.
The power contained within these shimmering pages transported me back to those cherished moments, chipping away at the icy shield that had blocked my memory until it returned in a rush.
As the first light of morning filtered through the curtains, I awoke to a whisper of winter’s magic. With sleepy eyes, I shuffled to the window in eager anticipation, the crisp chill of the room mingling with the warmth of my breath against the glass. Peering out, I was greeted by the enchanting sight of the windowpane adorned with a delicate tapestry of frosted designs.
The frost painted a story in intricate patterns—swirling ivy that curled and twisted, delicate snowflakes that danced among the tendrils, and lace-like filigrees that shimmered with a ghostly beauty. The designs sparkled faintly in the soft morning light, casting ephemeral rainbows that rippled across the glass. Each frost-kissed motif was a masterpiece of nature’s artistry, capturing the essence of winter’s quiet elegance.
My eyes widened in wonder as I traced the patterns with my fingertips, feeling the cold sting of the frost beneath my touch. The designs seemed to come alive, telling a silent story of winter’s arrival. I exhaled slowly, leaving a foggy imprint on the glass. For a moment, the outside world faded away as I lost myself in the serene beauty of the delicate frostwork, a fleeting reminder of the season’s magical touch.
Reliving the memory bathed me in nostalgia, not just for the daily delights of each new discovery on the glass, but for the simple joy each design had provided. I longed to recapture that childlike wonder, one of the few bright glimmers in my otherwise clouded past.
As the realization dawned on me, a light illuminated my understanding. “These frosted designs are your creations.”
Crimson tinged his pale cheeks, not from the cold but an endearing blush. Avoiding my eyes, he nodded shyly. “At first the designs were similar to those I left on other windows, but when I saw how much you appreciated them, I began to create special ones just for you. I’d often stay up late, thinking of something new to delight you.”
His words settled over me like a gentle snowfall. The designs I had once believed were meant just for me had indeed been crafted with intention by someone who understood the beauty in the cold and the wonder found in winter and knew that I took delight in them. While I’d been surrounded by luxury—with a room full of toys and fine clothes—no one had taken the time or effort to see what I truly wanted…except him.
The realization that he was the creator of the frost patterns I had always cherished left me overwhelmed. Despite all the magic I’d witnessed in this castle of ice, a part of me had stubbornly clung to doubt, unable to connect the evidence of my senses to reality. But now I could no longer deny that he truly was the King of Winter.
In that moment, I felt the first true connection to the enigmatic figure who’d saved me—the one who had unknowingly brightened my childhood with his art. These weren’t just patterns of frost; they were a part of my past, a link to the Winter King himself, who had been with me all along, even when I didn’t know it.
The thought that I’d had a connection with this mystical being long before he found me freezing in that abandoned alley was astonishing. I’d believed my entire childhood had been overshadowed by loneliness, only to discover that Frost had taken notice of me and gone out of his way to bring me what small measure of happiness he could.
I finally managed to find my voice. “Those designs meant more to me than you can possibly realize.” My gratitude emerged tentatively, unfamiliar on my tongue.
“As did your pleasure to me,” he said. “My work often goes unappreciated.”
I traced the frosted designs caressing each page, as if a single touch could transport me back to my childhood when I first discovered them on my windowpane—a time of simplicity and innocence, despite my deep loneliness, before my outlook had grown hardened and bitter.
As the nostalgia deepened, I found myself yearning to relive that cherished moment. “I’ve always wanted to watch the mystical being who created these wondrous designs, and even longed to create some myself. I used to imagine it over and over, meeting the artist of ice.”
His eyes widened with disbelief, as if unsure whether he had heard me correctly. A bashful smile slowly appeared on his lips, dispelling the lingering shadows and lighting up his eyes. “You really want to see me create them? I want nothing more than to show humans how beautiful winter truly is.”
He seized my hand and led me back through the halls. As we passed his workroom, I peeked inside to see his workbench neat and waiting, his tools at the ready.
“Do you ever take a break from your work of sustaining winter?” I asked.
He looked at me, puzzled. “It’s my life’s purpose.”
“What about when winter is…gone? During the other seasons, do you just remain in your kingdom and wait for winter to return?”
He looked slightly amused but answered me seriously. “I do stay where it is always winter, but I don’t pause in my work. During the other three seasons, I have plenty to do—crafting snowflakes, creating a schedule for storms and other wintry weather, and studying to hone my craft. I also add magical fortifications to my palace to keep it…strong.” He said the last word softly, looking troubled. “Open the door next to my workbench.”
Curiously I twisted the frozen doorknob and pushed it open. Unlike the icy opulence I’d seen throughout most of the palace, this spacious chamber was simple and serviceable, stretching almost as far as I could see. The walls were lined with ice chests, transparent enough to reveal the countless snowflakes protected within. A calendar hung on the wall, neatly marked with what I assumed was Frost’s weather schedule. Along the ceiling floated miniature clouds, heavy with snow and waiting to be expanded and sent out. Huge blocks of solid ice were stacked in a corner, ready for use in his craftsmanship.
I stared in amazement. While I had finally accepted Frost’s identity, I was still awed at this display of his immense power, his control over a season that affected every living thing .
I could have spent hours exploring all of his work, but Frost beckoned to me, an eager sparkle in his eyes. He took my hand again, leading me to the vast window overlooking the snowy landscape. His skin was cold, but I noticed a difference—not only was it not as frigid as the first time our hands had touched, but it seemed to stoke a part of my heart I’d never noticed before.
Whatever my young imaginings had fantasized when imagining the process that created the frosted designs across my window was nothing to the enchantment of the experience as it unfolded before me.
As dusk’s first light began to filter through the curtains, Frost approached the pane with an artist’s grace. With a wave of his hand, a delicate breath of icy air spiraled from his fingertips, alighting onto the glass. Instantly, the windowpane began to transform beneath his touch. He moved with purpose and precision, his icy fingers trailing over the shimmering surface to create swirling arabesques and geometric designs that intertwined seamlessly.
Intricate patterns emerged as delicate tendrils of frost wove their way across the glass, directed by the king who watched with great concentration as the frost spread. The tendrils curled and branched out like the finest lace, each pattern unique and detailed. Fern-like fronds unfurled, their edges crisp and precise, catching the rosy evening light in a dance of crystalline beauty. Stars and flowers of frost bloomed alongside each other, their petals glistening with a soft, silvery glow. The frost patterns seemed almost alive, growing and expanding with an organic grace that belied their frozen nature.
Each stroke was a testament to his skill and creativity, transforming the ordinary window into a canvas of winter's artistry. The sunlight filtered through the frosted glass, casting refracting light into a myriad of colors, making the patterns sparkle and dance in a mesmerizing display.
When he finished, Frost stepped back to admire the enchanting scene before eagerly seeking my gaze for my approval. For a long moment I couldn’t speak, bound by the reverence that had accompanied his creative display. Finally my voice emerged as a breath of wonder. “I’ve never witnessed something so magical. I wish I could experience it for myself.”
I envied him not just for his powers and skill, but for the passion that filled his vast expanse of time. In contrast, my life felt utterly meaningless, marked by my endless pursuit of fleeting pleasures without any real joy.
A pleasant shiver tiptoed across my skin from his breath tickling my neck as he leaned closer. “Would you like to create magic for yourself? I could help you, if you wish.”
My breath caught. “Is that possible?”
“While trapped in this state of in-between, your soul—while not immortal—is no longer entirely human…as evidenced from the single spark of magic you manifested earlier.” A mischievous glint sparkled his eyes as he angled his body towards mine. “Are you ready?” His voice was a cool whisper, echoing the chill of winter.
I nodded with a mix of curiosity and excitement. It’d only taken a single demonstration to ignite my fascination with Frost’s magic—his ability to turn the ordinary into the extraordinary with a single touch that made me yearn to experience it for myself.
He took my hands in his, his touch cool but gentle. “I will bestow a portion of my power to stoke the glimmer you received when your soul entered this realm.” I drew in my breath as an aqua glow enfolded my hands, leaving my skin tingling as it faded. “Close your eyes and feel the magic inside you, like a cold river flowing through your veins. ”
I obeyed, my eyes fluttering shut. I focused on the sensation, feeling the cool energy that radiated from Frost’s hands seeping into my own.
“Now imagine that cold spreading through your fingers down to the tips. Picture the patterns you want to create, the intricate designs that will form on the glass.”
My brow furrowed slightly as I concentrated, visualizing delicate snowflakes and swirling icy tendrils.
“Good,” Frost murmured, his voice a gentle guide. “Now, open your eyes and place your hands on the windowpane.”
I did as instructed, pressing my palms against the cold glass. At first, nothing happened and I felt a flicker of doubt. But then, I felt a tingling sensation, as if a delicate breath of frost was beginning to awaken beneath my touch.
Frost leaned closer, his breath cool against my ear as he whispered. “Relax and let the magic flow naturally. Don’t force it.”
I released my tension with a trembling breath. I felt the magic respond, more eagerly this time as it flowed out of me and onto the glass. The whisper of frost began to spread, delicate crystalline patterns unfurling across the windowpane. I gasped in disbelief as swirling vines of ice and snowflakes blossomed beneath my fingers, each one unique and beautiful. I glanced at my hands in wonder; was this the first time I had used them to create rather than simply taking what others had made?
My eyes widened with delight as I watched the frost grow, the patterns becoming more elaborate and intricate. Frost smiled, his icy blue eyes soft. “It’s all about feeling the magic and letting it guide you.”
He placed his hands beside mine on the window and together we created a breathtaking tapestry of frost. The designs merged and intertwined, forming a stunning work of art that sparkled in the light, a magical frozen garden .
For a moment, we stood in silence, admiring our creation, the warmth of our shared moment contrasting with the chill of the magic. “Thank you for sharing your world with me,” I murmured.
“It was my pleasure sharing it with you.” I startled at the pinprick of cold that suddenly kissed the corner of my mouth as his fingertip gently touched me—an icy touch that, coming from him, somehow felt warm. “You’re smiling.”
Dazed, I reached up to graze my lips, twitching as if they ached to lift, a gesture I’d forgotten since realizing there was little to smile about ever again. Yet despite knowing death was near, in this moment I could see the beauty in a season where I had once believed it didn't exist. With him, I could finally capture the quiet joy I had spent years seeking that no longer felt so elusive.