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The cold crept up his bones.
It bit the tip of his nose.
It had swallowed his feed and digested them, slowly.
It put an icy hand on his back and shook him to the core.
His eyes were watering. He hated that – tears streaming down his face – and he pulled off one of the leather gloves to wipe his cheeks with the back of his hand.
The cold charged at once. His fingertips hurt.
He gritted his teeth, pulling the glove back on and trying to pull the collar of his jacket closer around his neck. No avail.
He yearned for warmth.
Fire.
He could almost hear it crackling, sending out rays of heat, of life.
Having a fire meant having a future.
Cold meant most certainly death.
The picture from the past crept up again.
He hated that memory – he had lost so many good ones, but this one had decided to stick around.
The day he had entered her hut to find her frozen in her bed.
He had set aside the little bag of coins he had earned from slaying the ghouls in the graveyard and had made his way over to the corpse.
She had looked as if she had been asleep. The ice on the blanket had shimmered as if she was covered in diamonds.
His chest had contracted so tightly that he could not breathe for a moment. Why hadn’t she lit a fire?
He knew the answer already. She had been too sick, and too frail. And the contract had taken too long.
His hands had been almost bloody after he had finished digging her grave, as far away from his father’s as possible.
Then he had burnt the hut.
He shook his head, tears burning in his eyes again, took his glove off, wiped them away with he back of his hand. Put the glove back on. Straightened his shoulders and followed his square-shouldered brother, who once again was singing softly to himself.
He turned around now, and he hated the look on the scarred face.
„Are you alright, Lambert?“
„Yes. Gotta get out of the fucking cold. Can’t wait to be home and drink my way to oblivion.“
He would need that tonight.
He would drink so the dreams wouldn’t come.