The Frost's Embrace

Pine trees reached high above her, their branches heavy with the weight of fresh snowfall. The world around her was a silent expanse of white save for the trees, the air crisp and biting. Yelena’s breath formed small clouds before her as she stopped a moment, suddenly unsure of which way she was headed. She slumped against a nearby trunk, weary. Cold was seeping into her fingers, into her bones. She struggled to move her fingers, her hands clumsy and uncooperative. 

Her body betrayed her, and then she was angry at the cold for sapping her strength.

I can’t be far from home, she thought, but … nothing around here looks familiar.

She had heard tales of these woods, of course. Stories whispered by firelight and spun with threads of caution and wonder. Stories of spirits and creatures that roamed freely in the untouched wilderness. Her grandmother had often warned her never to stray too far, especially in winter when the forest was at its most treacherous.

What have I gotten myself into, she wondered, and why did I take that stupid bet?

She couldn’t turn back—not yet. She was no quitter, and she wouldn’t give those stupid boys the satisfaction. I’ll earn their respect one way or another…

Despite her determination, Yelena's fingers and toes began to lose sensation, numbness creeping in as the biting cold took hold. She tasted blood in her mouth when she tried to move her lips, cracked from the cold. 

The initial sharp sting gave way to a persistent, dull ache. A tingling crept over her, then, as if tiny needles were pricking her skin. The fear and frost gnawed at her, but couldn’t let that stop her…

She stood back up, dusted herself off, drew her layers tighter around her, and trudged on.

Yet, the further Yelena walked, the less familiar the landscape became. Every tree seemed like a twin to the one before, and soon she realized she was hopelessly lost. Panic bloomed in her gut, then settled like a rock, a cold knot in her stomach, tightening with each step. The snow began to fall more heavily, muffling the world around her. She could no longer see the path she had taken; everything was a swirling, white blur. 

Real fear set in, then. She realized she might not make it out of this. She didn’t know if she would last much longer in this freezing cold, even dressed in as many layers as she had, all her cherished—if mismatched—hand-me-downs piled on her body along with a thick coat borrowed from a friend. 

Her heart raced as she stumbled forward, hoping to find something—anything—that might guide her back to some place she would recognize. Instead, she found something that gave her pause. 

There, in a small clearing, she saw a small house. Wind whipped snow around it, but the strange thing was, it was levitating far above the snowy field. At first she thought it was some illusion, some trick of the weather. She looked closer, confused, only for her veins to be set ablaze in sudden panic. 

Fire replaced the ice in her veins, and suddenly she wanted to flee. To run. 

PAIN. 

The cold deepened, a searing, burning sensation that made her gasp. It felt as though her flesh was being torn apart by the relentless freeze, a paradoxical burning cold that left her breathless.

She tried to run, but the snow was too deep; her limbs were far too clumsy.

The house wasn’t hovering. No, not at all. She almost wished, now, that it was as strange and silly as that. As impossible. The house stood there, not levitating, but firmly set atop a giant pair of legs. Chicken legs. Its windows glowed faintly in the encroaching dusk. Yelena’s eyes widened in terror. She knew this house from the stories, knew who lived within its walls.

"Baba Yaga," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the wind. The tales of the ancient witch, with her iron teeth and penchant for consuming children, filled her mind. Yelena again felt the urge, the survival instinct kicking in. RUN, it shouted. 

And she wanted to run, she really did. But her legs felt rooted to the spot, her fear freezing her in place.

As she stood there, the door of the house creaked open, and out stepped an old woman. The witch of her nightmares, come to make use of what would surely be her corpse by morning, anyway. Her hair was stringy and white, her body gaunt and hunched. One of her legs was all bone, stark and pale against the dark fabric of her skirt. But it was the face that made Yelena’s breath catch in her throat—it was the face of her grandmother, who had passed away earlier that winter.

"Babushka?" Yelena’s voice quivered with disbelief.

The old woman’s eyes softened as she looked at Yelena and nodded, her smile familiar and warm, cutting through the icy fear that gripped Yelena’s heart. Gradually, the pain subsided, replaced by a disturbing numbness. Her limbs no longer hurt; they felt like foreign objects attached to her body, unfeeling and disconnected. This eerie calm brought with it a dangerous sense of relief that mingled with deep, aching grief.

"But... how? You... you died. And the ground was too hard to bury you," Yelena stammered, tears welling up in her eyes.

Her grandmother nodded slowly. "Yes, I passed, but I am here now."

Yelena took a tentative step forward. "Are you here to hurt me?"

Her grandmother smiled gently, shaking her head. "No, Yelena. I am here to guide you." She extended a hand, beckoning Yelena closer. "Come inside, child. Warm yourself by the fire."

With a mixture of trepidation and longing, Yelena stepped inside the house. The interior was not the terrifying lair she had imagined, but a cozy, if eccentric, home. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting a warm glow over the room. Strange, ancient artifacts and dried herbs hung from the ceiling, filling the air with an earthy scent.

They sat by the fire, and Yelena’s grandmother handed her a steaming cup of tea. "Drink, my dear. It will warm you."

As she sipped the tea, Yelena felt a comforting warmth spread through her. "Why have you come to me, Babushka?" she asked softly.

Her grandmother’s eyes, wise and kind, met hers. "You have been struggling, haven’t you? With your place in the world, with the path you should take. Finding your strength."

Yelena nodded, tears spilling over her cheeks. "I feel so lost. I don’t know what to do, where to go. Who to put my trust in."

Her grandmother reached out, gently wiping away Yelena’s tears. "Listen to me, child. You carry the strength of your ancestors within you. Whenever you feel lost, take a moment to find a calm place deep inside yourself. We will be there, waiting."

"But nowhere inside feels calm anymore. And I—I still feel so cold. How will I find you?" Yelena asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Close your eyes, take a deep breath—take several—and listen with your heart," her grandmother replied. "We are always with you, Yelena. You are never truly alone. You are loved, and you are seen. You can come home now."

She finally relaxed.