Silver Moraine you were one of those classic ones

As the underside of his muzzle rested delicately atop her crown, the fallen snow queen let out a soft exhale from betwixt her blackened lips, relishing in the warmth he brought. She could see the charcoal fur lining his neck, and feel the hairs on his chin brush against the top of her head - such peace it brought, the kind of which had abandoned her for many moons. For a few heartbeats, she almost felt normal; as normal as one could, wrapped in gentle arms. As though her troubles had faded, if but for a fleeting moment. And fleeting it was, for soon enough the warmth left and her crown felt heavy once more, a burden. Cold, it felt cold. A part of her longed for his touch to remain, longed to feel whole again, but he had shifted and the moment lasted no longer.

I missed you, Empress. The title left both a bitter taste on her tongue, and was as comforting as hot chocolate on a terribly cold winter's evening. She had not deserved that title, of that she was sure, but the care in which it was spoken was as though the eruna had been given a warm hug, or wrapped in a blanket to shield her from the twinges of ice. "I missed you too," the ghost uttered, soft and tender, holding as much love as she could muster in those words - she wanted him to know she truly was grateful to see him, to know not all had been lost. Perhaps... perhaps he was the only one left, and it plunged a spear of sorrow through her heart.

"The Bypass... it fell." Her voice had dropped to a whisper again, oceanic orbs lost in the white as her eyelids fell down to hide them, and her head shook dismally before they were revealed again. "I had no choice but to move, but that is not all that plagues me. Much has happened, Cry." She could not explain to him the pain that wracked her body, that cursed her soul every time she dared to take a breath; she could not tell him of her heartbreak, of her losses and her failures. They said time healed all wounds, but she found it impossible to believe - none of her wounds had healed, they clung to her body as bitter scars, gashes and marks. They were constant reminders, tragic lines of her woeful story. She could not erase those words, could not remove herself from that book. She wanted to burn it, watch it dissolve into the air as nothing more than sparks, but the weight of knowing she could not was almost as heavy as her losses themselves. Erase me, she often desired to scream to the wind, to the sky, to the moon... but at least with the arrival of Cry, there was hope, no matter how small. She clung to it like a moth to a candle.