snow

I spent the winter in a remote mountain village, not entirely by choice--I'd hoped for a long autumn and a mild winter, and got neither. They were welcoming, if not entirely friendly, but I found ways to earn my keep. They knew turning me away was almost certainly a death sentence, and times weren't quite that tight.

The snows came early and they didn't let up. Within a few weeks it already felt like the snow had always been there and would be there long after I was gone. Sometimes, especially at night, I'd imagine that this thick blanket of frozen down would suffocate the entire world. It was an oddly peaceful thought, and every time I hated myself for thinking it.

I spent the mornings clearing out paths for the villagers and the evenings in the town hall, drilling their militia, hoping that they were only planning to defend themselves against bandits and invaders and weren't planning to become bandits or invaders themselves. And then, once the training was complete and everyone had retired for the night, I would eat a meal with my hosts--at first in silence, and then, as they warmed to my presence or grew tired of the isolation, in polite conversation.

On those rare days when I had nothing to do, I would walk. Ostensibly I was checking in on the more remote houses, ensuring that the paths were still usable, that everyone was in good health, but this was mostly an answer for when the locals got suspicious. Seeing my footsteps alone in the fresh snow, surrounded by that perfect stillness, I could finally feel free.

It wasn't to last, of course. I returned one evening to the smell of smoke, and found that my hosts' house had gone up in flames, and in the ensuing chaos of the town trying to stop the fire, someone had raided the storehouses. Most people had some supplies of their own tucked away, of course, but . . .

Suspicion fell on me at once. It didn't matter that I no longer had a place to stay, that the fire had destroyed most of my things as well as the food my hosts were using to feed me; I was an outsider, I knew the village, and they were certain they had been betrayed. I fled before they could decide that I needed to be brought to immediate justice--almost certain death was better than certain death.

An old villager I'd spoken to a few times on my walks stopped me when I passed by his cabin. "Leaving us, are we?"

"I don't fancy being killed for a crime I didn't commit." I put a hand on my sword. "Don't fancy killing anyone, either."

He held his hands up. "You're the only face I've seen in weeks, I've got no quarrel with you. Figured you might appreciate some supplies for the road, since it looks like you've lost yours."

I hesitated, then nodded. He beckoned me inside, and outfitted me with enough supplies for an extended foray into the winter wilds, and a map and compass to help me find my way to another town. Then he insisted on giving me a hot meal before I went, and offered me a space on the floor to stay the night. I declined.

It started snowing as I set out again, heavy enough that any tracks I left would be gone by the time the village tried to search for me. The journey to the next town would be a long one, but the world under the snow was so peaceful, I didn't really mind.