Rob
Pew Pew Pew
Frigid
1000 Words
1000 Words
It was oddly soothing, listening to her own breathing steadying itself towards an early grave. The attack had caught her off-guard, a sin in and of itself, but worse still was the simple fact that if by some stroke of luck she managed to get through this disgrace she would have to come face to face with her father’s wrath - she was absolutely sure of that.
Her eyes were still closed, refusing to open themselves in the wake of the storm still raging above her now sunken head. Snow had already begun to cover her body, the cold ice turning the wounds she’d suffered into a race against the clock. She was still warm, her fur-covered gear made sure work of that, but where her leather had been pierced her body had begun to deteriorate quickly.
Still her hands remained motionless and, though she knew exactly where to find the bandages she so religiously carried around on her person, her arms simply would not respond to her calls, to her pleas. She wanted to scream, but even that was too much for the laicar. All she could do to stay alive was to breathe in and out at a steady pace, but for how long she was unsure.
At times like this, though, where the cold was no longer a friend, she cursed her affinity to this harsh climate she called home. She felt at ease with the white, the snow, the wind coursing across her body howling in the night sky above. She felt one with this ivory, malicious nature and it was now proving to be her undoing. The soft blanket of snow was like a mattress to her and the crying wind a lullaby to her weariness.
She wanted to curl up and fall asleep, but knew that in this situation it would be to curl up and die instead.
Her gloved fingers traversed through the snow beneath a couple of times, twitching in a way that would’ve made it seem as if Sigrid were trying to ball her hand into a fist, but before long the fingers were stretched out again. She had no strength left in any part of her body, but still she persisted with heavy, steady breaths and a ticking clock at the back of her head counting down the seconds, minutes and hours until she would finally let out her final breath.
“SigrÁður,” a voice called out to her, distant and cold.
Her instincts told her to reach for her sword, but she could neither find nor reach it. Veiðimaðr had been lost upon her defeat, somewhere laying in the white abyss below. It had carried her through so many a battle, through so much pain and suffering that she’d started to consider it as more than just a tool, more than just a companion… it had become a friend, and now it was gone.
Just as the wind had died down, just like the storm had passed and made way for a clear sky overhead. The winter-sun shone its light brightly on the now barely visible Sigrid, but what little it did touch felt warm and surprisingly cold at the same time. The warmth did not feel soothing at all, more like intrusive on her motionless body. It drew attention to the parts that pained her so, and smoothed over the parts that didn’t hurt.
“SigrÁður!” that same voice called out again, still cold and distant but with me power behind it too this time.
Someone was looking for her, but she couldn’t respond in kind. She could only remain and listen to… what exactly? The wind had died down, the storm had ceased, but even then she should’ve still been hearing more than just a single voice in the distance, right? Perhaps some wild life, perhaps? Had her hearing been damaged because of the attack, or was it because of the cold?
“SigrÁður, wherefore are thou?”
She wanted to yell, call out to this person, to tell him or her that she was ‘here’ but even if she could, she did not know where ‘here’ was supposed to be. Somewhere in the white, the snow of yore, that’s where, but that didn’t help anyone, least of all herself. She could only remain silent, hoping and praying that she would be found.
Her face began to feel numb, and her breathing slowed down considerably more in the course of a few minutes to the point where it was a just a matter of seconds before she would breathe out for the last time ever. The frigid air was starting to get on her throat too, making it hard for her to take in the fresh air with each passing try. It made her throat feel sore, but worse still was that it had slowly turned the inside of her body cold too.
As she waited for the inevitable, she slowly felt the hairs on her head become an alien presence to her, she could feel each and everyone of the hairs on her body. Her toes felt as if they weren’t even there and even her legs and hips were starting to give way for a feeling of disjointedness. If by some miracle she would wake up in some bed and find out that all that was left of her body was her head and her chest, she wouldn’t be surprised.
For all she knew, she’d been ripped to near shreds and she wouldn’t have felt a single thing.
Thump, thump, she could feel her heartbeat. Thump… thump. It was slowing down ever so slightly as the second passed. Thump…. She could almost count to ten now. Thump…. Until finally, her breathing was no more. The sky above was quiet, the storm had come to pass, everything was silent, still and beautiful.
Overhead an eagle circled, and the sound of a man, no older than twenty-five was heard.
“There you are.”