When snow falls from a cloud above a mountain top, it does not travel far. The snowflakes journey can all be caught in one breath; from birth to maturity, and to sleep, buried beneath its kind. People can not find rest so easily, though we all find solidarity in the thought of being buried. A tomb for eternal uninterrupted sleep.
I don't know whether I should have felt envious of the snowflakes, though I did. I could not see their strife with the wind as they fell, placing them like a needle through felt, creating a blanket before the mountain. I only saw their indifference of the cold, the altitude, as if living their lives by chance.
I would see the same snowflakes consume those I love in minutes, a coat to smoother out their voices for an eternity.
Armies do not march in winter, it is slow painful work. Men can not survive under such conditions. To lose a foot to frostbite or a horse to hunger was to feel lucky.
Though when two armies met on these mountain's table it was all they could do to stare in awe at their own misfortune, to get injured in such a place meant death to fight meant death for both parties.
They were just fleas to a shepherd's flock, in the spring when his wool was cut they would once again be seen by the world, but men could not be subjected to the same torment as fleas, a season under wool would be the end of them.
With the wind at their back, and the summit to their starboard stood an army of heathens two hundred strong. Where once stood black armor-clad horses, now stood simple mules. The winter had not taken everything from them, for on the simple mules were blue hands of priests. Hung from the horse's bit to their saddle were steal chains covered in small hooks and in turn a pair of hands. In their mind to make a cripple out of a priest was to take away his ability to pray. A man made this way could not clasp his hand together.
Looking into the wind, and with the summit to their port, stood an army of men women, and children. Evacuating a small town not much further down the road, it having become uninhabitable. Their force stood at a hundred strong but held the strength of a much, much smaller group. They were clade in wool coats and boots made of leather. The work was once uniform in color, but now patched by mothers by fire stills and on rocking chairs and not a tailer, patchwork was done to the extent to make them look like an unruly mob.
The two forces becoming within an arrow shot from each other became silent, the snow only allowed for their shadows to jut through. Though knowing the proper etiquette of man from each party began their march through the snow.
Where they converged a simple parlay was held.
The heathen would not allow himself to speak first, to do so was to submit. So he simply stood there within an arm's length of the village man. The village man felt no such quarrel but was taken back at the man's appearance. He wore full steal plated armor lined with black wool on the edges, a large sword on his back, several knives on his chest and arms, a short sword at his hip, and hung across his neck a think steal chain carrying a pair of hands that made their home over his breast. The village man could not help but curse at his own misfortune. He spoke the first words: