Come In From The Cold
Sleep crusted eyes creaked open, then squeezed shut again. Zanik lifted his hand, shielding his gaze from the seemingly harsh light. As his eyes adjusted to the glare, he surveyed the room he was in. A study of some sort, with many tall bookshelves lining the walls. He squinted, straining his eyes, but he could not see the titles on any of the spines. Giving up his efforts, his eyes swept the room's finer details.
Somewhere off to his right, on the wall behind his rather comfy chair, was a door to a hallway. He didn't pay it much thought. On the wall to his left, a window; the sky was bright and blue outside, though the horizon was dotted with strange clouds. In front of him, a fire place. The stone was solid and evenly cut; a grate forged from some sort of blackened metal seemed to keep the fire at bay as it raged and swirled in it's cage. Above the well-built fireplace, an old and battered shield rested. Little more than a slab of crude metal, it never-the-less gave an air of pride and dignity, having served it's owner well in it's day.
Zanik's mind took in his surrounding slowly, still sluggish from waking up. His eyes fell to his lap as he registered a slight weight there. A small book lay in his blueing hands, opened half way. The pages were blank. Must have dozed off while reading, he thought, as he carelessly dropped the book aside. His arms wrapped about his midsection, his breath suddenly frosting. His eyes watered, his vision shook. The clouds on the horizon darkened, the shadows in the corners of the room seethed. He closed his eyes and shook his head.
A cold had creeped into the room, and as he opened his eyes, Zanik watched as his breath made tiny little puffs of steam. His eyes flicked to the window; the clouds were no darker. The shadows danced with the fire instead of with the horrid life they had but moments before. His eyes widened at the thought. Fire. Leaving the safety of his chair, he leaned down and swept up the book he had discarded. His feet dragged on the wooden floor, his muscles feeling as though they were freezing around his bones. His eyes were fixed on the flame. He needed it; the warmth, the light.
His knees stung as he feel upon them, his shaking hands slipping the book past the grate. The fire seethed, and he stretched his hands, warmth spreading through his arms. His mind slowly woke from his sluggish stupor and his eyes admired the room about him anew. A fine place, he had built it himself. He smiled, allowing himself a little bit of satisfaction in the knowledge that his prediction had come true. The creeping cold had returned, but this time he had been prepared. He knew that if it weren't for this house, he would be taken. He wouldn't last a minute outside it's safety, it's light.
Light, he repeated. "Light," the word rolling past his tongue. His mind raced. What light had he, in his life? His eyes turned to the fire. "Fight." He rubbed his hands together and stretched them toward the fire once more. The warmth had spread all about his body. He glanced to his left, at the bright blue sky. "Light..." He smiled. His brief moments with Beth lit his world and kept him grounded. His fingers brushed against the hot grate before pulling back. Were this all there was in my life, he thought, I would surely burn out.
Content with this knowledge, he curled up beside the fire to sleep, safe from the cold and happy with his life. A good fight and some time with his daughter was all he needed. "Wouldn't it be nice," he whispered, "If the fighting would never end."
Somewhere off to his right, on the wall behind his rather comfy chair, was a door to a hallway. He didn't pay it much thought. On the wall to his left, a window; the sky was bright and blue outside, though the horizon was dotted with strange clouds. In front of him, a fire place. The stone was solid and evenly cut; a grate forged from some sort of blackened metal seemed to keep the fire at bay as it raged and swirled in it's cage. Above the well-built fireplace, an old and battered shield rested. Little more than a slab of crude metal, it never-the-less gave an air of pride and dignity, having served it's owner well in it's day.
Zanik's mind took in his surrounding slowly, still sluggish from waking up. His eyes fell to his lap as he registered a slight weight there. A small book lay in his blueing hands, opened half way. The pages were blank. Must have dozed off while reading, he thought, as he carelessly dropped the book aside. His arms wrapped about his midsection, his breath suddenly frosting. His eyes watered, his vision shook. The clouds on the horizon darkened, the shadows in the corners of the room seethed. He closed his eyes and shook his head.
A cold had creeped into the room, and as he opened his eyes, Zanik watched as his breath made tiny little puffs of steam. His eyes flicked to the window; the clouds were no darker. The shadows danced with the fire instead of with the horrid life they had but moments before. His eyes widened at the thought. Fire. Leaving the safety of his chair, he leaned down and swept up the book he had discarded. His feet dragged on the wooden floor, his muscles feeling as though they were freezing around his bones. His eyes were fixed on the flame. He needed it; the warmth, the light.
His knees stung as he feel upon them, his shaking hands slipping the book past the grate. The fire seethed, and he stretched his hands, warmth spreading through his arms. His mind slowly woke from his sluggish stupor and his eyes admired the room about him anew. A fine place, he had built it himself. He smiled, allowing himself a little bit of satisfaction in the knowledge that his prediction had come true. The creeping cold had returned, but this time he had been prepared. He knew that if it weren't for this house, he would be taken. He wouldn't last a minute outside it's safety, it's light.
Light, he repeated. "Light," the word rolling past his tongue. His mind raced. What light had he, in his life? His eyes turned to the fire. "Fight." He rubbed his hands together and stretched them toward the fire once more. The warmth had spread all about his body. He glanced to his left, at the bright blue sky. "Light..." He smiled. His brief moments with Beth lit his world and kept him grounded. His fingers brushed against the hot grate before pulling back. Were this all there was in my life, he thought, I would surely burn out.
Content with this knowledge, he curled up beside the fire to sleep, safe from the cold and happy with his life. A good fight and some time with his daughter was all he needed. "Wouldn't it be nice," he whispered, "If the fighting would never end."