Stepping outside was a death route.

The harsh wind bitting at your skin, it clung to you with a wolves grip.

The trees lose their life, a white blanket covering their bright, vibrant green leaves.

The air is crisp, unmoving, silent.

The white is unending.

An abyss of eternal white.

The color really isn’t comforting, only raging.

Inside a bright light is made.

The fire cracking in the distance.

You would think it’s warmth would chase the cold out but instead the harsh winter wins every time.

It was a battle we knew we couldn’t win.

So very many lives were taken in the midst of the war.

So many dead.

So many alive.

Both we equally bad.

For if you made it through, a part of the cold would forever stay in your eyes.

The ice breaking through your flesh and engulfing your soul.

It’s a sharp pain to suffer through, but the fire that breaks out after is valuable.

For if you can escape the harsh winter, then you become the fire.