The snow floats gently to the ground covering
everything that it lands on. Rocks, trees, and bushes all have a dusting of
white. The winds whistle through the trees, blowing an icy mist that glistens
in the dying light. The temperature will
drop soon and the scavengers will be out.
The battlefield lies in the open field,
broken and dead. Men are still, under the blanket of snow that will cover them
till spring. The look of horror and shock is frozen upon the faces of the dead.
Arrows and spears are sticking from their wounds.
Smoke rises from the burning wagons. This is
the only place where the snow refuses to land. The ground is wet from the
melting snow, creating a mixture of ash and mud that will be frozen when the
last bit of fiery life burns out on the tranquil battlefield.
His eyes snap open, brushing snow from his
face. He looks to the heavens, watching the snow drift down onto his face. He
tries moving his stiff arms, but he’s answered with shots of pain down his left
arm. He grimaces, trying to see what moves.
After some time of wiggling his toes and
fingers, his arms and legs get some motion back. He’s able to drag himself onto
his side leaning on an elbow to scan the end scene of the chaotic battle.
His shaggy brown hair is covered in a light
snow, frozen in clumps by the blood of his fellow Iron Brothers. His massive
stature is hard to move with how weak he is. He looks around trying to gain his
bearings.
He tries to get himself up to a crawling
position, but the wound in his side makes it difficult. He musters the courage
to do it, tearing at the ice covered wound. The cold air has slowed his
bleeding allowing him to survive his wound, but for how long, he’s not sure.
He crawls over to a fellow soldier holding a
spear coming from his belly. He doesn't know the man but he was still an Iron
Brother. He rips off some of the dead man’s undershirt to wrap around his
wound. He ties it as tight as he can bear. He crawls over to a burning wagon to
warm his extremities.
The warmth of the fire hits him before he
drags himself off the snow. He lies there letting his body soak up all the heat
the fire has to offer. He drags himself closer to the fire as his body thaws.
He hears the wolves howl in the distance. All
the death surrounding him will bring in all kinds of scavengers. He needs to
leave before they arrive and go the opposite direction. He finds a spear on the
ground close to the fire.
He grabs it, helping him pull himself to a standing
position. He uses the spear as a walking stick. He searches for any kind of
weapon that he’s strong enough to use to defend himself. He finds a sword and
half frozen loaf of bread.
He grabs up both and makes his way to the
edge of the field. He grabs another cloak on his way that he finds on another
dead body. When he reaches the tree line, he turns back around, looking at the
carnage. “Goodbye, brothers. I will avenge you.”
He spins back around disappearing into the
forest. His pace is labored, the snow crunching underfoot with each step he
takes. The wind whips around him from all directions lifting his cloak with it.
The sounds of the wolves in the distance alert his ears. He turns to look
behind him, listening for their distance.
He picks up his tempo, weaving between the
trees. The snow is falling faster, the flakes bigger as the temperature drops.
Each breath comes out in a steaming fog. His fingers feel as if they’re
freezing around the spear.
He knows he doesn’t have much time before he
gets the chill. He races through the forest, hoping to find somewhere to take
refuge for the night. Any place he can keep a fire going out of the wind and
snow.
The smell of roasting meat comes with the
next blast of wind, brushing his face with icy fingers. He stops walking,
listening for anything that sounds like civilization. Nothing catches his
attention, he presses on, trying to stay in the same direction.
The forest and fading light hinder his speed.
“I should have brought a torch.” He mumbles, breathing hard, a thick cloud of
breath escapes him. He pushes on through the thick trees, hoping to make it
through the night.
He comes upon a road in a little clearing.
It’s hard to tell whether or not it’s been used recently with the fresh snow. He
steps onto the road straining to see which direction he needs to go. Left or
right, his decision will decide his life.
He smells the air, hoping for another hint of
the roasting meat. “Was it my mind playing tricks on me?” He mumbles with the
wind blowing a different direction now. “Fuck it.” He shrugs his shoulders and
turns right, staying off the road, so it’s harder to see he came this way for
any traveler on the road.
The road twists and turns the entire way. At
one point, he feels he’s going back to the battlefield until it turns again. He
feels as if he’s been walking all night. The stars non-existent as the snow
still falls making it hard to judge the time.
The snow has reached halfway up his shins
when he sees the first light of the town. There’s only a small house with a
light that appears to be in a window, smoke coming from the rock chimney.
He tries to run but his legs are too cold and
he falls in the snow. “Pull yourself together!” His anger gives him the
adrenaline to pull himself back up. He focuses on the light off in the
distance. Each step becomes sturdier. With each step, he gets faster.
His heart rate picks up and his body warms as
he moves faster. His wound tearing as he goes, blood flowing down his leg
warming it. His energy is draining as he moves through the snow. The light
draws closer as he breaks into a run.
His breathing is getting strenuous as the
wound on his side tears even more. He drops his spear and breaks out into a
full sprint. He can’t go anymore. The pain is just too much. He collapses on
his knees, burying his lower body in the snow.
He puts his head in his hands in frustration.
He looks back up at the light, still so far away. He laughs at the irony behind
it all. His laughter gets louder when he looks to his left seeing another house
to his left.
The realization that he’s in the center of a
small town turns the laughter of dread into triumph. “Help!” He laughs. Nothing
happens inside the houses surrounding him. “Help!” He yells again, louder this
time.
He can hear some sounds coming from one of
the houses. He sees a light from the window to his left. He’s getting weaker
from his open wound. The door opens and a man with a lantern steps out.
The only thing he can do before he falls face
first in the snow is give a small smile and a wave. The man races to him in the
snow. He blacks out after that, letting the cold darkness take him.
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