Ice filled his nostrils.
It must've snowed all night, and bitter cold ensued with rapid winds. He found Al purple and pale, eyes wide with blackened lips. Clouds parted, revealing a midday sun, and he ruffled snow out his hair.
After covering her up, wishing her well until morning, he trudged through knee deep snow.
Above them, the redwell oak he knew it was called, was too high. So he walked along the wood line, knocking branches off smaller trees with his club. Frozen as stone, some chipped his make shift bat, and by the end of the day it must've lost a third of its wood.
Enough wood to make a fire, he ran a pair of rocks together, something watched Peter do.
No luck after dusk, but he kept trying.
Winds settled, though his fingers were numb. Whether tucking them in his armpits, between his legs, or shoving them in his mouth, it made no difference. An hour left until midnight, and his entire body felt to be beside a fire. It was hot, so much so he stripped off the little rags he had on. Soaked with sweat from head to toe, he blacked out, and the white walls greeted him.
Had it really been all there was?
Of course not, as every fight, every champion slain, gave him more. He had to know, and while staring at those white walls he started panicking, believing there may not have been much else.
'Babe…Babe…' The woman spoke.
Her voice was so soft, but something sharp took his ears.
'Babe…Ye' who are a soulless bastard!'
Sweat soaked him as he gasped.
A hand on his chest, Al smiled down at him, a fire roaring beside them.
She said nothing, removing her hand, then made room for him. They sat in silence all morning, winds gusting almost taking out the flames. While Al kindled the fire, fighting against roaring winds kicking up snow, he gathered more branches. Despite laying beside a twenty meter high redwell, it didn't protect them from the winds, and by the end of the day they built a shelter, a wall of sticks hunched over them against the wind. He shoved rocks at the base, keeping it from falling over throughout the night, though by morning snow roared within the countryside.
No road to offer direction, they'd have to rely on his memory.
It was a straight shot, towards the villages, then the mountains above.
The fire was so warm, and neither of them wanted to leave. Two days travel separated them from civilization, and the tunnels where he discovered his flail.
Along with dragons, even the smallest of them liable to keep them on the mountains for months.
"There's ale," he said, telling Al of the village, "and a blacksmith. He might have some way to make you a bow."
She shook her head, revealing to him something she'd been working on since dusk.
"Smith's no good," she said, showing him the hasty short bow she'd carved. "Draynsville's the only place with a proper bow master."
At dawn they stepped off.
No further than a few miles, and the storm intensified so much, they decided to turn back. It would've been easier to just freeze to death, but the thought of the fire kept them going. They leaned on one another, stumbling and falling at violent gusts. It was dark when they returned to what was left of their shelter, though it was enough to cover them from the wind.
Al tried sparking a fire, but her fingers froze.
Against one another, Al's back against his chest, they shivered.
Thunder ignited the sky. Rumbles shook the bitter ground beneath them, and snow pounded them for hours. They didn't bother to dig themselves up, as it gave some semblance of warmth, protecting them from the wind.
Al froze first, her skin like a furnace, steam rising from her head.
He took her rock spear, fingers swollen black, and tried slitting his throat. After several pitiful attempts, he tried stabbing himself, but his arms were too stiff. When he tried bashing his head against rocks, he gave himself a light headache but not much else.
While cursing himself to sleep, sudden warmth arrived.
Tan walls, firebombs, incoming, then he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. A tan green uniform like the other soldiers, but he could hardly see his face.
When he woke up, Al shivered against him.
It was so cold every breath iced their lips or nostrils. Frostbite was already taking their fingers, and they'd be dead before noon.
"I think, I'm finally starting to understand," Al stuttered, pressing her back against him. "Why you are the way you are."
"Don't talk," he murmured, eyes stinging.
She laughed, or so he thought.
Her body shook, and tears ran down her face. She wept uncontrollably, gasping between chills.
Tight as he could, he wrapped his arms around her.
Between the swamp and at least fifty miles of waist deep snow, they were alone. Winds blew, so fast, and though there wasn't a cloud in the sky the sun gave no warmth.
He held Al, whispering to her.
"Keep breathing. No matter what, breath."
Someone needed to wrap him, as by midday his lips were frozen shut.
She grasped his hands, rubbing them much as he could. A little warmth, in spite of bloated black fingers, and he caught his breath for a moment. Within the next hour Al fell stiff, but he held her until sunset.
Crows cawed.
He crawled from the shelter, dragging his face through snow. Perched on the redwell's branches, all it leaves untouched after the blizzard, crows clicked. Some had red eyes, no, white eyes. It was all in his mind, and he shook his head, but the birds were still snickering.
Now you face a god, he waited for them to say.
"I'm not finished with you," he growled, forcing himself to stand.
One caw and the crows flew off.
Black feathers fell round him, and he shouted, throat tightening. He collapsed into the snow, spitting up blood, crows cawing in circles above.
"I'm not finished….I'm not finished…I'll kill you," he said, warmth taking him.
He was finished.
There was no end to the snow, he knew from years ago.
At dawn, they'd go even if there were no roads.