White.
It was white everywhere. The ground, the sky, even the air around him was white as snow fell heavily.
It was cold as well. So cold. He was wearing all the furs and thick woollen clothes he could find, yet still the cold found its way in. At least he was moving, keeping warm.
He was only sixteen summers old. A year ago, he would not have pictured himself here, up in the heights of the White Mountains and hunting the brigands who tried to escape up there. If only the snow hadn’t come in when it had. The mountains had been covered in snow when they began the expedition, but when the storm had hit they had been forced to take shelter and wait it out.
Now, they were looking out over the small lake high in the mountains a set of fresh tracks leading out over it. “You go first boy.” Came the gruff voice of Garren, the leader of their expedition.
Taraborn gulped, but nodded fearlessly before pushing ahead onto the ice. He slowly forged ahead, testing the ground as he walked slowly in his snow shoes, wishing as hard as he could that the ice wouldn’t crack. Perhaps someone heard his prayers, and he was soon most of the way onto the ice when he heard the others going beginning to follow. Looking back, they were spread out, following the tracks he had forged.
It felt like hours, days even, till he had crossed the ice, letting out a great sigh of relief at having made it to the solid ground. He began shaking himself, doing as he had been told to try and keep warm by making his body produce heat while he waited. Eventually, the rest of the team of ten men had arrived, at this side of the lake and they stopped for a couple of minutes to take on some food, dried sausages and a thick, dense bread full of energy to allow them to press on.
Taraborn struggled to keep up with the rest of the group, and he followed the man before him as quickly as he could on his snow shoes, pushing himself forward with the poles they had given him. Behind him, one of the other men urged him on.
It was some time till they found their destination, a small cave in the side of the mountain with blankets draped down to keep the warmth in. They stopped some distance from the cave, taking on some more food before beginning the attack.
It was hectic and chaotic, and Taraborn had barely any clue what he was doing until he saw one of the brigands rush from the fighting into the distance. No one else was giving chase, so he knew what to do. Rushing after him Taraborn soon found himself running head into the wind all of a sudden, the snow beating down blindingly.
He could just about make out his target up ahead, so he continued to push after him, forgetting what he’d been taught before coming up into the mountains.
He was running blindly now, following what he thought was the same direction he had been going in.
There was a great crack, followed by a splash as freezing water surged up around him. He gasped for breath and struggled to keep his head over the water. He was about to panic when he remembered what he’d been told. He threw his weapon to one side of the ice, no longer caring about damaging the pristine sword. He heaved his pack onto the side before using the spikes on the base of the sticks to begin to pick his way out. He kicked his legs and heaved with all his might to drag himself and all his wet clothes from the frigid water, his heart beating fast to try and warm himself up as his muscles began to fail.
He was out, dripping with water ready to freeze as he tried to remember what to do next.
He crawled back towards the land from the way he came, dragging himself along the ice as he could feel his clothes growing colder and colder. His mind was getting a little fuzzy as he reached solid ground, and pulling off his wet clothes to replace with the dry ones in his pack. He was thankful for the wax coated bags that the other sellswords had loaned him, as three of them around his spare clothes had kept them dry.
Stripping off was the hardest thing he had ever had to do in his life. Out here in the freezing cold with the wind battering away at him and the snow pelting his skin was like a frozen hell, yet he knew it was necessary.
His warm clothes on, he began to drag himself away from the lake to the nearest snow drift. He began digging, trying to keep himself warm through movement. He practiced what he had been taught over the previous few days and dug himself a small cave in the snow with the mini shovel he had on his pack. The whole process took over an hour, but soon he was in the small cave, and able to light a small candle with his flint and steel and emergency candle.
He had laughed at some of the suggestions on what to take with him, doubting he would need some of these things. A candle had seemed ludicrous, but now he was so thankful for the warmth provided by the tiny flame.
He didn’t sleep that night. He couldn’t. He spent it doing what he could to keep warm by shuffling around in his little cave, flicking his fingers and wiggling his toes within his bedroll. His mind went back to Minas Tirith, and the warm home he had there. Perhaps he shouldn’t have left.
Everything there had been white too.
