Snowdrops
My offering for Horror in Bloom
⚠️ Horror, sacrifice, ritual execution via hanging and fire, peril, and a general air of bleak subservience and futility. Mention of suicide (in the final notes around the research I undertook, but not in the story).
Every thud reverberated through my frame, through my mind, my blood. Each step a reminder of what I’d see if I opened my eyes, if I dared to raise my head. In the shadows, I believed myself safe.
I believed I’d retain my curated paradise.
Fractured and brittle as it was.
Burrowing deeper into the blankets, I welcomed the warm shroud of wool, of linen, of silk. There was comfort in the fibres which wrapped my limbs, supported by the mattress below.
Even if sleep was impossible.
For as long as I could remember, we’d been trapped. A cycle of failure and splintered hope. As beautiful as the landscape which surrounded my home was, it was capricious. Seasons did not act in order, nor obey the needs of stomachs, of memory. The older we grew, the more we saw the shadows, and the more our minds deteriorated, our bodies withered.
Crops grew at the whim of the gods, and the gods saw us as sport. Any pattern snapped before it could truly take, any schedule rearranged with abandon. There was little we could do but participate in their games.
It was the only way we were granted the sun.
The rain.
It had been thirteen moons since we’d last seen either. Our stores were all but gone, our livestock depleted to the very last of those we trusted would provide future sustenance, who could assist in labour. As a community we were steadily being eroded by the very deities we offered prayers, provided gifts, sacrificed…
Sacrifice.
The biggest offering of all. And today, she failed; every uniform meeting of boot with hardened earth confirmed that. The sombre procession one I’d heard too often and one I knew would force me from these secure walls.
Obligation could never be ignored.
The piercing chime of the bell, echoing from the centre of the village heralded the end of the march. It was a discordant howl in the darkness; the oppressive gunmetal clouds which hung, threatening to part but never dissolving. The promise of rain which never came; only hail, only snow.
The strike of the match from beyond my door, between the connection of hammer and iron, was my first warning. Drifting sulphur the second. The drag of the blankets my last.
‘Kore.’
I clung to the void, my eyes closed. Opening them would admit the choice about to be made. Opening them would reveal the sorrow etched into my mother’s face.
‘Kore, you must.’
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Mud confirmed the thaw fire brought. The beacon’s flames kept burning at great cost; the woods around us slowly shrinking as new growth fought through lengthy periods of lack. The heat kept snow from settling below it, kept the water from freezing. The watchman vigilant, his eyes keen and body still.
My own felt barely stitched together.
In the flickering light, the scaffold was more shadow than substance, yet the presence loomed over us with menace. Thick layers of snow stained with footprints. The wooden steps and beams coated in slick ice which reflected amber tongues.
The words uttered by the village elder were drowned by the erratic thrum of my pulse. My eyes caught anything but the sobbing woman standing on the small stool. She was silent; we’d learnt young that begging wouldn’t save us.
The hush of those gathered was cloying.
Broken with the crunch of snow when the elder stepped away; my eyes lifting to witness something familiar. I owed her that. And it was an expectation, a duty. My body, bundled beneath several pieces of clothing, couldn’t suppress the shiver when our gaze met. Her reddened eyes and trembling skin bringing a glaze to mine.
The crack of her neck ricocheting in the silence.
Flora, her fist unfurling, jerked with the tightening of the rope. From her palm, flakes of dry scales, crushed stems, bruised petals, floated toward the ice.
She’d tried.
Gods.
She’d got it, only for it to wither returning home. And now, now another would need to retrace her steps. Another would need to retrieve the bulb, safely nourish new growth.
Eyes closed, my exhale stuttered through my throat. I’d been fortunate to escape such a journey, but I knew such luck wouldn’t last. There weren’t many of us left.
The soft weeping of Flora’s family crept through my fear. I swallowed and buried the apprehension, straightening to observe the dignified way their drooped heads processed to her hanging body. Brought her down into their arms. The thin layer of wood ready to be her pyre.
Ritual was how we’d survived this long.
Ritual was how we appeased those who made us suffer.
The ground too solid, we relied on flames to carry our dead to those who would care for them. Those who’d guide them to a better life. A life without such trials and without the hardships we endured in this one.
Flora had only just begun to smoulder when the elders gathered on the gibbet, the noose limp behind the central man. There was little breeze to lift the smoke, nor sway the rope.
My jaw felt like glass, ready to break from the pressure of my teeth; if I ground them any harder they’d shatter. The heat of my mother, my father, either side of me doing little to soothe the glacial knife which dragged languidly down my spine.
Quiet, the birch podium holding the wicker basket, decorated with green and white ribbons, was placed before the men.
I could feel every single muscle in my body. Taut. Violent. Poised to snap with each prolonged breath I was forced to take. With each tight push against my ribs; my lungs as tender as the expectation which swirled in the village square. The bell tower silent, watching over those gathered to witness which name would be plucked from within the woven urn.
The gods would proclaim who’d been selected to meet them.
And fate would always be in control of my future.
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It should be the Equinox, according to the calendar which we diligently followed. We should be waking to greet the sun, our altar carved to align with the dawn. But there was no tangible sunrise.
The clouds too low, too thick.
Our movements too fractured, too cautious.
Since hearing my name be called so decisively from the elder at midnight, my family hadn’t said a word. Despite it, we still formed an arc and knelt before the image of Marena and lit our white candles. Lit the gold ones before the image of Vesna. Our heads bowed and lips forming the salutation none of us dare voice.
Admitting the morning had arrived was too cruel.
Just as saying goodbye would be. I refused to utter it. Refused to permit the salted water which weighed my lashes to fall. My steps growing bolder the more distance I put between my family, my home, my village.
My destination the dark maw between the pines which beckoned beyond the square, beyond the gallows, beyond the still smoking remains of Flora.
I didn’t look to her; I couldn’t. Spine straight, perseverance in each measured step and each jarring breath. The ribbons on every doorway I passed, the candles in every window, a blur of colour and custom; the rites of hope.
The sacrament meant to show solidarity and fortitude.
It felt hollow.
As hollow as the muscle in my chest, as the ache in my limbs, the haze of white I navigated. The sting of each flake against my face an indictment of the consequences of my heritage, the dice thrown which birthed me here. How many times had I longed to run? How many times had I considered taking control to prevent this from happening?
Not enough.
Still, I was here. And still, I walked.
The only tool I carried was a knife, should I need to dig the bulb from the hard earth. Otherwise, I’d only my tongue. My words. My mind. And all felt too numb to deliver anything.
This quest was one spoken of in hushed tones, stories relayed to every daughter before they’d learned to talk. Before they’d truly learned to understand. It was expected I’d do the same with my own daughter.
If I survived this.
I put such thoughts aside, my eyes narrowing against the biting strikes which swirled, obscuring the path ahead. The frozen earth threatening to drag me under, the drifts of snow clinging to my boots, my thighs. What had been dark fabric transformed to thick layers of white, heavy and barely melting with my breath.
My skin ached. My eyelashes stuck.
If I cried, would the salt dissolve the ice?
How much would I need to weep to slay winter?
How much would my family sob when I failed? When they had to watch me swing and crack, smoulder and crumble.
The shudder which ate through my frame made me wonder if it was the chill or fear. I couldn’t afford either. Curling my hands, the wool itchy but welcome, I began to sing.
The flower of hope
Renewal divine
Delicate and strong
Friend of the snow
Begin the cycle—
The notes died on my lips as my foot slipped. My soft song transforming into a choked scream as the ground gave way and I was falling.
Falling.
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Slower. The descent waned, my body’s tumble meeting resistance, and the arrival on the rocks tempered by declining speed. By a shadowy embrace which guided me to land on my feet.
A hand too large, too solid for the lack of substance I could see. My eyes adjusting to the sparkling crystalline cavern I’d arrived in and mind trying to decipher exactly what I’d found.
Who I’d found.
The shadow unseen, no matter how I spun.
‘Don’t chase the shadow, Kore,’ a voice called.
I stopped, my limbs delayed in their turn and stumbling against my icy clothing. The cave may have been sheltered from the blizzard, but it was not warm, far from it; my breath formed clouds with each irregular sharp exhale.
‘It’s far better for you to stop searching.’
My swallow did little to settle the nausea climbing my throat.
The voice was sweet, but I couldn’t quite place where it emanated from. It echoed over the towering pillars of pure ice, enchantingly transparent and creating a distorted refraction of the space. Reflected the inky-dark water which flowed alongside the slick tundra I stood upon.
Glacial stalactites and stalagmites stretched as far as I could see; jagged points of frosted rock, delicate swirls of hoar crystals forming serpentine roots across the landscape. Tilting my head up, there was no sky. No gap. Only more ice, more snow. A blanket of white which seemed to wash against an unseen barrier.
I was under the snow.
‘Yes, you are.’
My knees were weak. My body even colder than before as the voice broke through my thoughts. My thoughts. How—
‘You can hide nothing from me, Kore.’
My hand went to my chest, fingers digging into the brittle fabric; crisp with frozen ice-flakes. Below the hem of my woollen hat, lines forged through pallid skin; how could the river flow?
‘The water’s warm.’
Of course it is, I countered. Mentally.
With the kaleidoscopic light, shimmering water, and white ceiling, the cavern enhanced the shiver cascading through my body. Eating into my bones. I knew I’d need to move, or I’d end up becoming as rooted as the looming icicles surrounding me. Another thought sprung before I could catch it; the people who vanished from time to time… we thought they’d just left, unable to cope with endless winter, endless uncertainty.
What if they’re here?
Transformed by the ice? Hidden by it? Killed by it?
‘What if, Kore.’
I swear there was laughter undercutting the words. How she teased in her response to my thoughts. Closing my eyes I willed my mind to empty, to become as desolate as the land I knew.
‘Impossible, Kore.’ A pause. ‘Unless—’
‘Unless what?’
A hiss pulsed around me. The air otherwise quiet. Expectant. A meandering slice seemed to spiral down my spine; sharp and painfully cold. Yet, I was alone.
There was no-one here. Except the voice… maybe I’d hit my head.
‘No, Kore.’
‘If you’re going to be in my head,’ I said, ‘then we need some rules, and you need to get me out of here.’
Silence.
Another hiss.
‘I’ve things to do, I can’t loiter here.’
‘You’re right.’
I inhaled deeply; the burn of the frosty air chasing through my lungs. It brought further salted water to my eyes. But they didn’t fall. Couldn’t fall.
‘You need to make a choice, Kore. The shadow or me.’
My frown deepened.
‘Hunt the shadow,’ she continued, ‘and return to your village.’
Before me, snow began to fall. Isolated and gently drifting in a slow fractal within touching distance. The flakes sticking, melding, and steadily forming a shape I recognised.
A bulb. Scaled and budding. Stems defiantly reaching for the cushioned roof of the cavern, small pure white petals drooping toward the stark, empty, ground below them.
‘Find me, and your village will be granted Spring.’
I blinked. Licked my lips.
I’ve definitely hit my head.
‘Kore.’
My name was a sigh; her voice a melody which made me shake; the snow which clung to my clothing stubbornly keeping me clad in white. I wasn’t sure how it happened, but I collapsed to my knees. My gloved fingers brushing over the delicate snowdrops; real.
Very real.
‘Please.’
Her word was a whisper.
‘Kore, please, come to me.’
My head lifted, eyes searching for any sign of who it was who spoke, of where she may be. The cavern was endless. Whichever way I walked, I’d be walking for hours, for days.
How could I know which way to go?
‘Don’t.’
A new voice.
The rough timbre cut through me, his instruction offered with force, with an urgency which kept me static. The pads of my fingers resting on tangible proof of Spring. If she, whoever she was, could conjure a snowdrop from snow, then she could release my home from Winter.
I could release my people from suffering.
‘Kore,’ he said, ‘this is between Marena and I; take the plant.’
‘Stay,’ she countered.
Marena? The Goddess of Winter? My eyes widened.
‘Yes, Kore, I’m Marena.’ She paused. ‘And I want you to stay.’
My gaze fell to the snowdrop. It had yet to wither, wasn’t even planted; I could pluck it and go… where? There was no way out. The river continued to flow, glistening amongst bleak rocks and crystalline pillars, but there was no door. No path. The ceiling showed no gap I’d entered through.
‘I’ll guide you,’ Marena offered.
A curling breeze swept around me, gently pressing against my back.
‘And I’ll show you.’
‘Veles, no!’ Her voice was a wild cry. ‘Close your eyes, Kore.’
I obeyed. The darkness was welcome; my mind a tumult of confusing threads as I tried to regulate the fractured beat of my pulse. I daren’t move. Arils dug into my knees, through the thick layers my mother had dressed me in before I left. My flesh quivering below the knitted scarf my father had wound around my neck before he placed a kiss on my brow.
Had Flora experienced this?
‘Yes.’
Had she trusted Marena?
‘No.’
There was anguish in her ethereal answer. It cut into my heart. Flora had always been eager to please her family, had always been timid; perhaps the chance to take the snowdrops had been irresistible. Perhaps Veles had shown himself, his shadow leading her, following her, home before she even had the chance to choose.
Perhaps Marena is lying.
‘Please, Kore; come to me.’
My breathing was shallow; heated exhales against the wool chapping my lips.
‘She’ll see me eventually,’ Veles stated; his voice all fury and spite.
And inevitability.
There was a sense that fate had already been written; as though every step I was about to take had already been taken. That every step I was about to take were ones I’d forgotten.
The hope of my village, the potential they’d repeatedly imbued me with, was an incessant fever. A tight reminder which bit against my temples with unrelenting pressure. I’m not sure if it was obligation which brought me to my feet, or if it was courage to defy it.
And when the tender sweep of air stroked over my back, I stepped forward and crushed the flowers. The delicate exterior melting and leaving a pool of ice which cracked. Slid to the water’s edge.
Unseen as I continued to trust the guiding caress of glacial encouragement against me. An embrace which killed the pain of failure, the ache of possible disappointment; if I continued would my village be doomed to live in winter for eternity? Would Marena trick me, and leave me empty-handed and destined to join Flora in death?
‘You’ll have a choice, Kore,’ Marena soothed.
With my eyes closed, my other senses were heightened; the scent of musk, of ash, of birch. Woodland under sunlight, after rain. My path a continuance of the stream’s song which sedately flowed beside me.
‘Kore, you can open your eyes.’
I halted, my fingers braiding before my stomach. The breath in my lungs a shallow frost, duelling with the heated cotton in my throat. Could I?
‘Kore,’ she said, ‘this is where your journey ends.’
That wasn’t a reassuring thing to learn.
‘Please, Kore.’
A new voice; female. Soft and pleading. Her petition fading into a whimper as a strong hiss sounded, as the sound of scales brushed over the raw stone of this underground, under snow, cavern.
Still, my eyes remained sealed. My body tight enough to snap. The firm stroke of a hand over my shoulders causing me to shudder, to lean away from the touch as rough fingers began to remove my snow-laden clothing. Until I was standing in only the embroidered tunic my mother had so deftly crafted, my hair unwound from beneath the hat.
Only then, as their footsteps receded, did I cautiously flicker my gaze to where I stood, my mouth hinging open with fresh anguish.
‘Kore,’ Veles said from his throne; carved from rock and ice, stretching toward the vaulted ceiling. Beside him, Marena smiled.
A poisonous and wicked smile.
Did they trick Flora, too?
‘It’s not a trick.’ Marena waved her hand, a cascade of snow released from her palm; flakes transforming into snowdrops where they landed on the dais.
A dais surrounded by writhing serpents; obsidian scales tumbling in an ouroboros of flesh. Restless shadows which threaded over stone. Slid across the fragile blooms. My eyes tried to follow their frenzied dance, a hypnotic pattern which drew my attention to the kneeling woman between the thrones.
‘Yes, Kore,’ Veles stated, ‘this is your choice.’
‘I don’t understand.’ My voice cracked. ‘You said if I saw you—’
‘If you saw my shadow.’ His eyes shone. ‘I’m not in my shadow form, now. But I can be, if you decide against our offer.’
‘And if I see your shadow, I return with the snowdrop, and my village is granted Spring?’
He laughed; there was cruelty in it. ‘If you see my shadow, you will be given a snowdrop, yes, but that doesn’t guarantee Spring.’
My eyes closed. I knew the consequences of that too well. If the snowdrop shattered, then my failure would result in my body being marched to the gallows. But if I got the snowdrop home, if it lived, then my village would feel the warmth, the rain, the hope.
‘If I don’t see your shadow?’ I whispered; tears gathering.
‘We want to make you an offer, Kore,’ Marena said, looking to Veles. His hand reaching over to take hers and placing a kiss on her wrist. ‘Vesna is unhappy, and wishes to return to the surface.’
Swiping the moisture from my lashes, my focus shifted to the woman; her bowed head lifting to meet my gaze. ‘Vesna,’ I exhaled.
‘If you stay, Kore,’ Marena continued, ‘we’ll permit Vesna to return.’
‘Which will also deliver Spring,’ Veles added.
‘Please,’ Vesna begged.
I rolled my tongue over my lips, the deep furrows of my brow evidence of how torn I felt. Could I do this? If I took the snowdrops, the shroud of white heads thriving around my feet, and successfully delivered it to my village, Spring would be granted. If I took the snowdrops, but they died, then I’d die. My people would suffer.
Or I stay, and they live. They get to experience the beautiful caress of the sun, the bounty of the harvest in coming months after their seeds are planted under gentle rains. They’d get to succumb to the fever which had found no outlet for so many moons; bodies desperate to find the emotional connection, the carnal release, which was continually denied. Too weary, too fearful, to admit.
So, it was death, either way. Return, fail, die. Stay, and I lose my life; the life I knew, my family, my home. But… stay and they live.
My chest shuddered with the intake of breath, the weeping I swallowed, as my eyes chased around the cavern.
‘Do you swear they’ll be safe? Do you swear the seasons will be reinstated and that they’ll be able to live?’ I could barely see, the tears I’d so hastily tried to remove stubbornly returning.
‘If you permit Vesna to leave, she will provide Spring, and the other seasons will follow.’
‘But, when Winter comes—’
‘I will deliver Winter,’ Marena said, her voice glass, ‘but with the Goddess of Spring back where she belongs, I will relinquish my hold at the appropriate time.’
‘And you have my word that the only dead I’ll claim will be those who have lived their natural lives,’ Veles added, his hand resting on his chest.
‘Can I say goodbye to my family?’
‘You decide now,’ Veles commanded, ‘or never, and I’ll claim every single one of your village with pain and fury.’
I knew his words were truth; his shadow had stretched over my entire life and would be what’d greet me in death. We were all incredibly aware of his strength, and learning of his love for Marena was not a surprise. Discovering Vesna here, was.
And yet, it made sense. She’d been captive, and I had the chance to permit her freedom.
It’d be a sacrifice.
But I was familiar with sacrifice.
© Ariadne Pautina, 2026
Thank you for reading; this was written for the Spring Fever event. I’m learning to write more horror / horror-adjacent (my horror stories tends to be more psychological / atmospheric) tales, so I appreciate your time with these words and the world I’ve crafted.
I chose snowdrops as my title and focus for several reasons.
Spring offers several key rituals, and as a Pagan I’m familiar with Imbolc, Ostara, and Beltane. There are many deities and themes which reoccur during these months, and the honouring of the seasonal changes are important to me. And while I did opt to include elements of these (the idea of sacrifice, fires, revival, and hope) I was also very familiar with the symbolism of the snowdrop.
While researching what I wanted to incorporate in the story, I began with the things I knew - and that progressed through things such as Spring Fever (the psychological and physiological reality of this), the increase in suicide rates, and the alignment of the Sphinx to the rising sun on the Spring Equinox. I also read about the Groundhog, shadows, and - of course - Persephone (Kore).
Persephone’s story is one I know well. She carries snowdrops from the Underworld when she leaves Hades in the Spring, and these flowers are a symbol of the return of life after winter. But, snowdrops are also reminders of death - perfect for horror.
The petals look like a corpse’s shroud, their drooping heads like mourners, and they grow in the shade, close to the ground (therefore close to the dead). The plant is, of course, also poisonous when eaten - but can provide a mild painkiller for headaches and is now being researched as a possible treatment for Alzheimer’s, as the bulb contains galantamine.
This makes the plant also a symbol of hope.
Snowdrops are flowers which represent renewal, hope, and perseverance - and there are legends and folklores which utilise the plant for such a symbol. In Russian legends, the snowdrop was the only flower to stand up to the evil old woman Winter and fight through the snow toward the sun.
Of course, in Russia, snowdrops are also the name given to the dead who appear as snow melts. The word for snowdrop, in Russian, is подснежник, which also means ‘under the snow’.
Throughout this tale I’ve included references - some more overt than others - to these elements of research. Flora is named after the Goddess, who dressed as a snowdrop. Marena is the Russian Goddess of Winter, Veles the Russian God of the Underworld and Death, and Vesna is the Russian Goddess of Spring - all these deities have specific traits and legends which I incorporated (in part) within the story.
All to say, I really enjoyed the research and how I could apply these things creatively to tell a story that will feel familiar, in part, and unsettling in others.
You can discover the full song Kore sings, and the melody, by visiting the companion rites - Snowdrops: Flower of Hope.
This had such a folkloric feel, weighty and fraught but with a throughline of lightness and hope. Beautiful. I also appreciated the research summary you included. Really interesting!
Really atmospheric language here. Feels claustrophobic and cold, just as it should. Nice work!