Sagas, Scenic, Short story

As one.

It’s cold here now. The clouds have parted leaving nought but stars in their wake, the winds taunting with their frozen chill, blowing and subsiding just enough to offer hope that there might be some relief.

The woods suffer as does the land, legend tells that an unjust king sits upon the throne for the land to be so bleak. It is not for winter alone that such a chill lays in the air, nor is it that all has turned into the black and white of dead and sleeping trees coupled with the pureness of snow.

Even the whispers of Gods and their symbols of bright hope in the darkest depths of winter are fading or gone altogether. The green of pine has turned to brown, the dark glow of holly sitting as but a shadow of its glory.

The fire’s flames glow softly in the hall, the firewood full of rot. Together we sit, our proud folk alone, assailed by that which seeks entry. But we will go on and will not give up, even to the last of us. For our blood is all we have, a gift we give solely to our own.

So sit we by the fire, so remember we what was. For one day this will be but a cold day, or others will create a memory of us to an image of their own.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s