OVERLOOKED ㅤkotlc

014. Snow Angels Without Wings

"Why's this place so pretty?"

I laugh. Rimeshire's less pretty without all this snow, but I don't say that out loud. "You look like you've never seen snow before."

A week has passed.

Rosaleen's gotten much better at identifying emotions, so I guess that's one thing Lord Cassius is doing right. Tinker and I have made tons of flawed weapons, too, and a few real ones for the Black Swan.

And as for the two of us as a whole... well, at first, we mostly just stuck around each other because we were supposed to, if I'm being honest. But now, I think I'd hang out with her a lot, with or without this mission preparation.

Rosaleen mock-glares at me, but her eyes are smiling. "Starglint's a pretty warm place," she says. "We don't get much snow."

I smirk, and she catches it. "Dex, no, that does not mean you get to throw a snowb—"

I throw a snowball at her.

"Dex!" she says, but she's laughing, her lips tipping into a lopsided grin. I've identified this smile as the "So, this is fun and all, but it'd be funner if I got you back" smile.

And, I do not want to be snowball-smacked, so I run, laughing at her as she runs after me, her boots sinking into the snow.

"Catch me if you can, you slow... elf!" I call.

I can hear her giggling as she chases after me, and then she's up in the air and I realize she's levitating, so I move the snow towards her, like watercolor splashing onto a canvas.

She yelps in surprise, losing her focus as she falls into the snow.

Oh, shoot—

I stop. "Rosaleen?" She's on her knees. Is she hurt? Frick.

When she's silent, I cautiously move towards her. The snow's too deep to get hurt, though. But she's not used to the cold, right? So what if she still got hurt? Somehow? Frick frick frick. "Are you okay? I'm sorry, I didn't—"

And then she grabs my wrist and pulls me into the snow, too, and I gasp as I fall into the biting cold, but she's laughing—and laughter's contagious.

We must look pretty dumb, laughing in the snow, like snow angels without wings. And when I think I'm done, I take one look at her and she takes one look at me, and—

We start laughing again.

Rosaleen and I are definitely the dumbest snow angels there are.

Another few minutes of breathless laughing pursues; we keep looking at each other and have to start all over again. Then, finally, we both gradually stop, until we're just lying in the snow and watching the clouds.

A faint smile lingers on my lips, and I don't even notice it until my cheeks start hurting.

Finally, I stand, holding out a hand to Rosaleen. She takes it, and I help pull her up. There's snow caught in her damp hair, and her cheeks are red from the cold, but I think I like her like this.

"Well played," I say, struggling to sound formal. "That was quite impressive and an excellent, intelligent strategy. You deserve a colossal, magnificent troph—"

"Don't forget extravagant."

I grin. "A colossal, magnificent, extravagant trophy, for that stunning victory."

She curtsies. "I gift you with my greatest and utmost gratitude for this genuine felicitation. I will cherish your preeminent words, print them out, and hang them onto my exquisite walls as a quotidian reminder of your grace and diplomacy."

"Okay, now you're just showing off," I say, and she laughs. "Now that your nonexistent trophy's been given, we should probably go inside before you catch a cold."

She nods, and we head inside. Dad's amused at how unkempt we've become, and Mom sends both of us to separate showers right away, lending her old clothes to Rosaleen.

It's funny to see this whole thing play out, and it's funny how embarrassed Rosaleen is. But I think they like her, and if I had to guess, I think she likes them, too.

Thirty minutes later, we sit on the living room couch with mugs of cinnacreme. I'm in my pajamas (sweatpants and a sweatshirt), while Rosaleen's in Mom's nightgown (a shimmery lavender, which I faintly remember Mom wearing a few years ago).

We both have fuzzy blankets that Mom got from the closet in her room, too, and honestly, it feels like a lazy winter morning.

I sneak a peek at Rosaleen, who's trying to eat the mini marshmallows in her cinnacreme. Feeling my gaze on her, she puts the mug down, tilting her head at me.

"Are—Are you warm now?" I say. A dumb question, but whatever.

"Yes, sir." She starts to move her mug up, but then puts it down again to talk. "Your mom's nice. And her ability's really cool. Like, snow's awesome, and fun, and she can just do that whenever she wants? That's—really amazing."

I shrug. While Froster isn't the worst ability to have, I remember it wasn't exactly my first choice. "It's not 'amazing,' but I guess it's alr—"

"I think it's amazing," she says, blunt.

"It's cool, I guess, but the amazing ones are, like, Inflictor, or Mesmer."

She laughs. "Okay, but those kinda suck. Just a bit."

"Oh really? And Froster's better?" I say, tilting my head.

"Infinitely."

I'm definitely curious now. "Care to explain?"

"Of course—anything for the biggest idiot in the room," she teases.

I grin. "Stop dissing yourself," I say. "It's not very self-lovey-dovey."

She gets that soft smirk again, playful and mischievous, from the day I first met her. And again, it suits her.

Rosaleen takes another sip of cinnacreme, then says, "Froster's better because it... like, it makes a lot of people happy. Inflictor literally just makes people... cry, or whatever, and Mesmer manipulates people."

"But say you're fighting some Neverseen guy. That crying and manipulating's going to get useful, won't it?"

She pauses, thoughtful. "Yes," she says slowly, "but in the long run, something that makes yourself and others happy is better. I thi—" Rosaleen stops herself. "No, it is better."

When I hesitate, thinking of a response, she says, "Do you really see yourself fighting the Neverseen for the next gazillion centuries?"

"The next gazillion centuries?" I tease.

She presses her lips together, like she's holding back a smile, but nods, serious.

"Well... probably not. But I don't know, it's only been a few years, and it feels like a really long time, and it's so frustrating." If the Black Swan had a Mesmer, or—

"It won't last forever." Her voice is firm. Certain. "It won't last forever. And when it's all over, a Froster could do a lot of fun things. You can do a lot of fun things, too, instead of just make... weapons, and poison."

I want to say that, it might last forever, because it really feels that way, but I know that's unrealistic, so I don't. "Yes, ma'am," I say instead.

She smiles. "And I'll see you on the other side of this war."

Assuming we all survive this. "I'll see you there."

AUTHOR'S NOTE !

heh, the next chapter's in a different pov ;) (hdnfjs we're almost to the mission part—)