Ok the story line was taken from a music video but I really wanted to try the idea out.
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His fingers stiff from the bitter cold shake and tremble, a softly creased letter with flowing script is clutched tightly in his hand. The blue light of the moon shining threw Oliver the tailors window casts a frosty almost magical tinge on his cheeks. A gold locket is tucked safely in his Brest pocket. He sleeps in a large emerald green clothed chair, pulled close to the dyeing embers of the once lively fire.
The fire crackled and the rough wind like the breath of old man winter himself moans threw his rafters. Wisps of lifeless smoke wind around the furniture and linger like secret lovers after their first kiss, soon to fade deep into the night but not yet ready to face the disapproving eyes of family. Outside heavy, white snowflakes fall gently from the inky black sky. Which is why when Oliver was roughly shaken from his peaceful slumber he didn't notice the cloudy grey feathers dancing soflty on the wind. As he jumps out of his chair a small, black and white picture falls to the floor only to be snatched by a passing wind and blown in to the greedy fire.
"Jane!" He cries and plunges his hand into the fire. The edges are burnt but the picture is unharmed. A smiling woman sits regarding the camera with a omewhat mischievous look hidden behind her black eyes. Soft curls frame her smooth, pale face. A loving, gold locket hangs at her throat. Her smile is innocent and playful. The letter, locket and photo re all he has left of this gem of a women. Her time on earth barely a grain in the sands of time. Oliver settles back into his chair by the fire haunted with memories of his Jane. Young lovers they where but the graled and twisted hands of death reached out and tore her from young Oliver's grasp. All that is left of the young, promising man of 20 is a broken shell. A empty bottle broken and smashed on the waves of the sea. Oliver drifts back into the land of dreams.
The pearly Grey feathers continue to fall down to earth. Oliver wakes again to find delicate grey feathers dancing around his shop. He reaches out to touch one but misses as it floats away from his fridged, blue fingers. He feels a pair of hazel eyes gazing at him from behind following his movements with wide eyed intensity. Slowly he turns to face the someone who is only a memory to him.
There amidst the swirling feathers stands a woman, Her hair in loose curls shines in the pale moonlight. Her lips are red and glossy like the forbidden apple of Eden. Her skin is luminescent like the full moon and gives off a unearthly glow. She wears a white gown that seems to be made of the delicately, swinishness, gossamer of every child's wishes. Even in the cold her shoulders are bare and moonkissed. She moves toward him with long sweeping movents that make the cloth rustle and whisper as she skims the surface of the earth. He reaches out and touches her shoulder. "Jane" He whispers. She takes him in her arms and softly kisses him. Her embrace is freezing yet he can't let her go. Just then he notices the crimson blood spilling out over her shoulder and down the back of her dress. Looking in to her eyes he sees she's weak, a fallen angel. Graceful she falls to the earth and he catchers her. Laying her on his best fabric she seems frail and small, not the woman he fell in love with. Just a shell. Carefully he gathers the fallen feathers and places them over her. He could make her wings! He couldn't save her from the suffocating reality of death but maybe her can give her wings to find her soul which has drifted where she can only go with wings. The long rips in the flesh of her back show him she once had wings but he can only guess what happened to them. But what can Oliver use as thread? The moon shines threw his gingerbread glazed windows and he rushes over to it. He winds the moonbeams until the spool sparkles and glisents like fresh dew. Quickly he crafts the feathers together until they form wings. Slowly as if he is afraid he will break her if he is too loud he takes her in his arms and makes a stitch in the skin. Her wide searching eyes fly open and she screams. Withering and shaking in his arms she crys. Her screams are silent but reach down to his soul and squeeze it. Pain shoots threw him as he makes another stitch. Another silver stitch, and another and another. One wing is on but he has to stop her pain is so intense it rips his soul. "Let go of me" her soul reaches his. "Set me free and let me be just a memory, soon we will be together" But he can't let her go. "Take me with you" he begs. But she shakes her head sadly. "I will go instead of you then." He pleads. "No I need you hear." Not a sound has escaped their lips yet they talk. He finishes the silver stitches and kisses her one last time.
"Oliver, Please darling."
Jane stands in in front of him extending a hand, she wears a white, gold and silver dress. He takes her hand and they walk into the moon light.
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Take the ending as you will its open ended for a reason.

The Little Match-SellerBy Hans Christian Andersen
It was terribly cold and nearly dark on the last evening of the old year, and the snow was falling fast. In the cold and the darkness, a poor little girl, with bare head and naked feet, roamed through the streets. It is true she had on a pair of slippers when she left home, but they were not of much use. They were very large, so large, indeed, that they had belonged to her mother, and the poor little creature had lost them in running across the street to avoid two carriages that were rolling along at a terrible rate. One of the slippers she could not find, and a boy seized upon the other and ran away with it, saying that he could use it as a cradle, when he had children of his own. So the little girl went on with her little naked feet, which were quite red and blue with the cold. In an old apron she carried a number of matches, and had a bundle of them in her hands. No one had bought anything of her the whole day, nor had anyone given her even a penny. Shivering with cold and hunger, she crept along; poor little child, she looked the picture of misery. The snowflakes fell on her long, fair hair, which hung in curls on her shoulders, but she regarded them not.
Lights were shining from every window, and there was a savory smell of roast goose, for it was New-year's eve—yes, she remembered that. In a corner, between two houses, one of which projected beyond the other, she sank down and huddled herself together. She had drawn her little feet under her, but she could not keep off the cold; and she dared not go home, for she had sold no matches, and could not take home even a penny of money. Her father would certainly beat her; besides, it was almost as cold at home as here, for they had only the roof to cover them, through which the wind howled, although the largest holes had been stopped up with straw and rags. Her little hands were almost frozen with the cold. Ah! perhaps a burning match might be some good, if she could draw it from the bundle and strike it against the wall, just to warm her fingers. She drew one out—“scratch!” how it sputtered as it burnt! It gave a warm, bright light, like a little candle, as she held her hand over it. It was really a wonderful light. It seemed to the little girl that she was sitting by a large iron stove, with polished brass feet and a brass ornament. How the fire burned! and seemed so beautifully warm that the child stretched out her feet as if to warm them, when, lo! the flame of the match went out, the stove vanished, and she had only the remains of the half-burnt match in her hand.
She rubbed another match on the wall. It burst into a flame, and where its light fell upon the wall it became as transparent as a veil, and she could see into the room. The table was covered with a snowy white table-cloth, on which stood a splendid dinner service, and a steaming roast goose, stuffed with apples and dried plums. And what was still more wonderful, the goose jumped down from the dish and waddled across the floor, with a knife and fork in its breast, to the little girl. Then the match went out, and there remained nothing but the thick, damp, cold wall before her.
She lighted another match, and then she found herself sitting under a beautiful Christmas-tree. It was larger and more beautifully decorated than the one which she had seen through the glass door at the rich merchant's. Thousands of tapers were burning upon the green branches, and colored pictures, like those she had seen in the show-windows, looked down upon it all. The little one stretched out her hand towards them, and the match went out.
The Christmas lights rose higher and higher, till they looked to her like the stars in the sky. Then she saw a star fall, leaving behind it a bright streak of fire. “Someone is dying,” thought the little girl, for her old grandmother, the only one who had ever loved her, and who was now dead, had told her that when a star falls, a soul was going up to God.
She again rubbed a match on the wall, and the light shone round her; in the brightness stood her old grandmother, clear and shining, yet mild and loving in her appearance. “Grandmother,” cried the little one, “O take me with you; I know you will go away when the match burns out; you will vanish like the warm stove, the roast goose, and the large, glorious Christmas-tree.” And she made haste to light the whole bundle of matches, for she wished to keep her grandmother there. And the matches glowed with a light that was brighter than the noon-day, and her grandmother had never appeared so large or so beautiful. She took the little girl in her arms, and they both flew upwards in brightness and joy far above the earth, where there was neither cold nor hunger nor pain, for they were with God.
In the dawn of morning there lay the poor little one, with pale cheeks and smiling mouth, leaning against the wall; she had been frozen to death on the last evening of the year; and the New-year's sun rose and shone upon a little corpse! The child still sat, in the stiffness of death, holding the matches in her hand, one bundle of which was burnt. “She tried to warm herself,” said some. No one imagined what beautiful things she had seen, nor into what glory she had entered with her grandmother, on New-year's day.
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This story makes me dislike christmas alot

The real christmas story
'Twas the night before Christmas,
when all through the house
all the creature’s where stirring,
even the mouse;
I had planed my escape with careful care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas would not be there;
I sat in my chair chained to led,
While visions of sugared-plums danced in my head;
I was starved, hadn’t eaten in a day or four;
No gruel or no-name crackers where here anymore,
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the chains to see Miss shatter.
It was her signal, a clatter and wave,
I knew now I would have to be brave.
Us elves are tired of being treated like snow!
Trod on and trampled, crushed below,
I stole out the window when who should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,
With a little old driver, so cruel and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
Someone had ratted I knew as they came,
he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
You dunce, Dasher! dumb, Dancer! Idiot, Prancer and Vixen!
Half witted, Comet! Stupid, Cupid! Dolt, Donder and Blitzen!
Get those elves or I’ll make you fall!
Now dash away! dash away!” and he whipped them all!
They realy where in no condition to fly,
But still he made them take to they sky,
so on and on the abused reindeer flew,
With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too.
And then, a crunch, I heard on the roof
The crying and pawing of a taken down hoof.
As I drew back my hand, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in reindeer fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes, blood and soot;
the bundle of rounded up elves he had flung on his back,And he looked like a smuggler just opening his sack.
His eyes -- how they crinkled! his dimples how hairy!
His cheeks were like blood, his nose like a very scary!
His drooling little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;
The stump of the reindeer hoof he held tight in his teeth,
And the blood pooling in the form a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook, when he cackled like a bowlful of rotten jelly.
He was mean and old, he said “right jolly old elf,”
And I cringed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had to dread;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And chained the elves back up; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of my nose,
And giving a tug, a crack, and then he froze;
He sprang to his sleigh, to his tired team gave a whistle,
And whipped them all with a sharp thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
"I’ll destroy Christmas sometime, just not tonight."
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I am distructive when I'm bord. Parodies are fun. Happy non-denominational celebration.

"Allanbano, you grace us with you presents at last." Ice queen stokes my cheek with her carfully sharpened talons. The slight rustle of her dress can be heard as she paces around me. Our breath is white and gostly, little grey clods drift from our mouths like smoke billoing from the chimney.
"What do you want with me?" I almsot scream.
"I would have thought better maners from the great Allanbano." I shudder why does every one keep calling me that? I'm Kylaia! Her talons dig treanches in my shoulders but I don't wince although I want to cry. I've come so far but yet I'm so far. I'm past the point of no return thought. No one will come to my aid. I wouldn't ask them to.
"Lets go!" I hustel my horse, ok my stolen horse out of the barn. Its early morn and the larks haven't even awoken yet. I turn back to gaze at my home. Among Lucid seed, exeptance and love awiat. But I must leave.
The feel of my own blood tricking down my cheeks brings me back to the desolate ice fortress.