Flurries of snow sink down to the white crystalized blanket under my horse's hoofprints. The sludge is melting away from under us as we walk on. Our heads are dipped low and our vows are veiled. My eyes look up to meet him. The Prince. Blood colored hair resting upon a face chiseled from stone, his eyes burning coals, the Prince.
In my ruby cloak, I shiver, trying to stay warm. The blinding sun seared my pupil and I squinted as the hours passed and it rode from east to west. Night settled over the horizon and we made camp. Refugees of war weren't able to stop much, but the rhythm of the horse's clip-clop amongst the everlasting grey drum of exile was excruciating, and we had to move on.
Arriving upon our camp, the Prince got a message. Ripped parchment from the talons of a hawk read our fate.
We were almost free, on the border between antagonizing pain and stunning happiness, when finally, the bad guys won.
That was when dusk ate dawn