I languish on a throne of red velvet and ornately carved gilt wood, many times too large for me, draped all over with plush wolf-grey animal furs.
The many mothers brush my hair; they anoint me with sweet perfumes. They paint gold on my eyelids, blood on my lips.
The many fathers bow down in the snow several feet away; they prostrate themselves before me, wailing in fierce, ecstatic jubilation.
Their crimson robes are dusted with snowflakes, little icicles forming around the rims of their concealing hoods after many hours spent with their faces pressed down to the frozen earth.
One of the many mothers touches a dot of perfume to the small tear-shaped golden locket I wear around my neck. Ever present, it burns against my chest, a chip of ice that emanates a mysterious power.
There is
