This was one of the stories I wasn't able to finish in time to vote for, but now that I've finally read it, I'm here to cry all over you and sneeze a little on your shirt. (Okay, that's a little gross... Consider me throwing myself at your feet.) This is a gorgeous piece of writing.
I agree with one of the comments above, that your language is elegant and spare. Not a word wasted, nothing is forced or out of place. The feel of winter actually comes through your words. *shivers*
And poor, poor Fraser. It hurts to read about everything he has lost and let slip through his fingers, and know that he's actually going to survive this (that the supply of wood was kept so low before, and him not caring, was brilliant) ... but he's never going to be the same Fraser that we saw in Chicago.
"I never told him I loved him. I don’t think he knew."
Oh gosh, Nos. This part completely broke my heart.
*salutes you*
*considers voting 9999.9, just to test if the polling is really closed. heh.*
no subject
I agree with one of the comments above, that your language is elegant and spare. Not a word wasted, nothing is forced or out of place. The feel of winter actually comes through your words. *shivers*
And poor, poor Fraser. It hurts to read about everything he has lost and let slip through his fingers, and know that he's actually going to survive this (that the supply of wood was kept so low before, and him not caring, was brilliant) ... but he's never going to be the same Fraser that we saw in Chicago.
"I never told him I loved him. I don’t think he knew."
Oh gosh, Nos. This part completely broke my heart.
*salutes you*
*considers voting 9999.9, just to test if the polling is really closed. heh.*