It was cold. A bone-chilling, breath-taking cold. The kind of cold that slowed the blood and slowed the mind until a man's only thought was that of getting warm again. But he walked on. He had been walking for a long time now; so long that it was a wonder he was still going. He felt like his legs should be hurting by now, but in such bitter cold he had ceased feeling anything in his legs long ago. Now they only moved as if by habit, like a pendulum set in motion and forgotten. Onward. One step more into deep, unfriendly snow. And another step. It was an unconcious action, one which was only given any thought when a particularly fierce gust of wind upset its rhythm. That was the worst part: the wind. You've heard of wind like knives? This was wind like axes. Spears. Large, two-handed broadswords with jagged edges swung by demons' arms. I suppose you've heard of howling wind as well. This wind did not howl. It was the raging battle cry from the throats of an army. It came charging down from the mountains like death on his pale horse.
Then there was the snow. Ah, the snow. A snow that grabbed at legs and limbs and would not let go without a fight. Each step struggle worth three.
Why would a man brave such cold and wind and snow?
He did not know. He had forgotten.
He only knew that he must keep moving forward.
So call me dramatic.
4 comments:
I remember those leg numbing treks to class, where your mind would take off on crazy side trips. Oddly enough, I do miss it a bit.
You should come and visit for the Florida Fellowship meeting in a month and take a break from the cold!
Dramatic...but enjoyable
A "little?" But my favorite is the demon-armed wind with broadswords and jagged edges. And I must have missed the mountains where this shrieking wind dwells.
It was at that moment, when all his thought had bent to try and remember his purpose that he felt a searing pain on his left cheek. He looked to see that the wind had actually turned to knives. Tiny little ice-like blades that came soaring at his face. He instinctively threw up his cloak to shield himself. The daggers tore threw the heavy fabric and lodged in a tree nearby. It was an attack. He knew from who...but where?
It was then that the trees began to sway violently. Limbs broke away and began swirling around him. The snow formed an impenetrable circle. The cyclone blotted out the sun and darkness began to descend upon the Traveler. He dropped to his knees, and scratched a symbol in the loose dirt. He began muttering in a soft yet powerful tone. His voice rose in volume with the pulse of the tempest, and with it also a dull light seemed to eminate from the ground. As the storm and the chanting peaked the traveler looked up sharply, eyes ablaze wreathed with flame and in an instant blinding light shot out from all around him.
The trees fell silent.
The snow slowly returned to the ground.
All was peaceful again....and cold.
(thought it followed well after that intro)
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