Her hand floated up, gestured for him to approach. The white silk of her kimono held the light of the rising sun. The snow did not touch her skin. It feared to do so. Her beauty was greater than it could compare. She was all the snow could hope to be.

She was death.

The corpse lay still and blue at her feet, a young man from the farmlands nearby. This was no place for a young man. A young man and a fool, who had not recognised death when he had seen her.

She smiled at him.

Suzume Benkei sat his basket down against the base of the tree, and leaned into its strength. Into his mind swept the Tao. This snow maiden would not be his death. He had seen battlefield upon battlefield. He had slain a hundred samurai with the blade of his father's sword. He had served the Emerald Legion for a lifetime. Those days were past, but not lost. Nothing was lost. Like the boundless depths of the Ocean, time kept all that it was given.

He reached down and lifted a falen branch, weighing it with both hands, his eyes never leaving hers. She drifted towards him through the trees, past the dead, young, farmer's son. He could not see her breath. His own hung like white silk in the winter cold. Like the white silk which touched her skin.

The branch felt like the yari in his hands, like the days of old. He had learned from his mother's family, the skills of war.

He poised to strike. One strike, one death.

He heard motion behind him.

His eyes did not leave hers. She drifted silently towards him, through the trees. She was beautiful.

"Move and you will die, huu-mann."

The voice came from above. A voice like the voice of jade. Close. If he reached up, he could touch the speaker. His eyes did not leave hers. He felt metal against his neck.

More movement. The sounds made as an army moved, quietly, through the trees of the Shinomen. North. They were moving north. The metal against his neck was perfectly still. The sound carried on. His eyes did not leave hers. He did not lower his stance. One strike, one death.

The sound of dozens moving behind him, through the trees. Something was wrong with that sound. He heard no horses. He heard no footsteps. He heard no muffled cursing, as of soldiers passing by. His eyes did not leave hers. One strike, one death.

The sound of movement slipped quietly northward, like silk drifting across ice. His eyes did not leave hers. She was beautiful. He blinked.

She was never there.

He stood alone in the Shinomen with the corpse of a young man, frozen by the winter. There was no blade at his throat. Ghosts. Ghosts and shadows.

He picked up the basket. The road forward led to the temple.

The spirits of the Shinomen were marching to war. Carefully, he rested the branch he held on the white snow.

He turned east. His destiny lay with the past.