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It was cold, sixty degrees below zero, but the boy didn’t thought of it much and looked straight ahead to the vast uniform of white field. He walked just as the man instructed him to do so, never wavered as he pushed himself foot by foot. Snow was piling as it fell down the stiff earth, hindering his way, but still he managed, and all because the man had told him so.
The boy walked through the curvy hairline of buried path, now and then stumbling as rock bumped against his numb feet. The sun was dipping down behind the horizon, producing a mass of orange that singed the sky in its beautiful palette; it was beautiful, the boy thought. But the cold was hurting him now, numbed his cheeks with a speed unknown. He must hurry before he froze. It was his only thought as he took his sloppy gaits. Then stumbled.
He wore an oversized himation, a winter clothing made of hard wool and draped around his body like a Roman toga. He smiled as he remembered how his Mother made it for him, felt the first seep of warmth in his heart.
Tucked safely behind it was his food, continuously being warmed by the slowing heat of his body. But even with the thick clothing, cold penetrated; such was winter death. He had to hurry.
And so the boy went on walking, trusting the words of the man.
When he reached the crest of hill, he looked around? the temple must be here. It must be. But all he saw were drapes of wild snow, rising feet by feet as storm stirred a brew. He was huffing fast now, and the breath that came out were heavy balls of winter breath. But despite his stolen breaths he looked and looked.
Temperature dipped lower, one hundred and seventy-five degrees below zero now . . . but still it went down, continued to do so; his body grew weak from battling the coldness, felt pain spread over as numbness followed it, until he didn’t know whether it was warmth or cold that stung his skin.
Eyes blurred, he went down his knees, looked around for the last time. He found nothing but land of white, and be cursed that man for he had deceived him. He had trusted the words of the man, depended his life on it. And now that very same life was being taken, being pushed into this miserable death.
There wasn’t any temple. Nor any hint that there ever was.
And in his despair the voice had spoken.
He has always known; now you weep. But midnight shall come, and there he shall be burned by the moon. Die there. As you will.
With one last mourn, the boy fell down before he casted his vengeance.
The boy awoke in a mist of light, felt the first pang of pain as he abruptly sat up. Something called, like a siren’s call it was alluring . . . and it lured him. So he stood and went to the origin of call, walked in a dazed state of mind. It called like flower in the midst of wartime. And like the flower the voice had beauty in and on it. He fell upon the voice’s honey-sweet seduction and continued to trudge.
When he reached the place, the call halted. And there, lighted by moonlight, he saw. He saw with his own free eyes the boy that was him. And the death that smiled in his face. A scream that echoed through the silence of dead winter pierced like a cutlass sword, raked along the rawness of his throat, and caused him to flee for safety. But death wasn’t one to be cheated, but a ruler to be accepted, and so it came like a god in lightning speed, halted before the boy and finally . . . finally ended it all.