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how strange these things were, — a winter without end.

but the strange and the cold have always been brothers, sisters, kinship undefinable; Demeter was the great great granddaughter of Khaos, the origin, the harvest & its frost embodied in the titan that bore her ━ Rhea, child of earth & sky; mother of many; righteous betrayer in the name of her blood ━ her blood, her babes ━ the refusal to die easily, to let the cradle go cold, has been a rage unkillable in their bloodline.

how great a failure, then, when it does. the searches never die, but they never find her; her precious Kore. how great a failure, and yet one Artemis could not understand.

Her blood was distanced from that of Rhea, of the titans, the offshoot of a gangled tree choking itself on its stretching limbs; hers, the sprout that fell. she understood children, she understood the boiling of a womans rage; she, the huntress, all hounds and buck and beast; but she did not understand the weight of losing child. she did not want to, but she understood well & fine the way it coated the world, a thick sheet of sleet, the way grief turns cold, the way grief is rage, the way one day: one day: the world may die.

Tooth and nail then, Artemis thought, let them fight.

But this means nothing, here, in the bitter ice. the history and cause in the scheme of the world unremarkable in the face of the wild & the game, and an unfamiliar pelt marks her sights, one who may not know; one who may not care. like her, perhaps, like her.

the end of Artemis' bow, just as big as the Goddess herself, imbeds itself in the snow next to Amaterasu like it itself was an arrow shot with perfect aim. Artemis sits, almost lounging, upon its upright end as if where it goes she too shall follow, feet braced down its shaft to hold the precision with a comfortable, trained dexterity. she watches the dog — pelt as pale as rain in sunlight. the hound smelled like bristles and pollen and cold to the strong-voiced hunter. of other places, not here, of wilds and trees and roots unlike the ones of Greece. the quills of the ink-dyed deer, rabbit, horse. No, she was not from here, a sky unlike theirs and yet exactly the same. a tension stretches up her legs, excited, whirlwind from another land.

Scarlet on her coat, first like the blood staining a hunting dog. No. She was more than that. Scarlet on her coat like the sun rising over frozen bodies, the sky reflected a thousand times, a thousand more, in the windows of ice. Bristles and pollen and cold. ━ she smelled like the sun ruled by different stars. ━━━ Brother would like her, if they ever met.

“ You're not from here. ” she; the eternally blunt. ancient language hanging off her tongue, old greek thick in the curves of syllables. “ Enjoying our great winter, Kyon? ”

─「天照」─  don't mind her, she's simply staring at the snow. it's quiet, and peaceful. a company would be delightful, however. no one really stopped to admire the snow anymore. she would even share her precious sake !