The wind started to pick up in the early afternoon. The sky was red at dawn, so I hastily finished all I had needed to in that day.
The firewood was dry and inside, the water had been collected, the roof had been thoroughly repaired and the windows covered both inside and out.
All of this had been done before I stopped for lunch, enjoying the last of the sky as the dark clouds loomed in the distance. There was always so much do to as the days passed, but one grows accustomed to that while living so alone.
I ground the rest of the dried grain for flour inside by the fire which grew stronger beside, fed by dried twigs and sticks both young and old to make a bed of ember for larger logs.
I pulled salted pork from dark and cold cellar, a covered pit no larger than my body as I stand and lined with clay on all sides so it would stay cold and dry.
But the pork had been sitting in water all day, to take the most of the salt from taste. And as the rains began to fall and the thunder clapped ever closer from the distance, I enjoyed a fine meal of bread, pork and wine.
The wind howled and roared about my home, whistling by corners and branches, eagerly trying to break down my door and thrust my windows inward.
But so my house held and the storm carried on, and I slept by the secured front door. A sword close to hand beneath my pillow, you never know what sorts travel in this. Let alone how desperate they might be for a shelter as warm and inviting as mine.
But deep in the night as the storm raged on, I heard the collapse of a wall. A scream and a cry “Oh help me!” it pleaded, “My home has collapsed upon me!”.
I rose from my bed and pushed it against the door, fed the fire and raised up my sword.
I would not expose myself to such things there outside, should they claim to be as heaven or whore.
“Please!” the screams cried again in pain, the voice thrust around by the power of the winds.
But silent I watched from inside my home, light shining from the flame beside me.
Such is the life I have here alone, far from village or kingly throne.
You you might find cruel I know as a truth, a deceiving call for aid.
“I beg you, please come, I’m stuck in this home” again cried the voice of my neighbor.
But my neighbor’s been dead for ten years or more, and I tore his house down after the storm the year after he’d cried out for aid.
For that year again, he’d cried for my hand to help. He was already dead the very first time, and each after he hungers to tear at my soul.