With legs that trembled as though they bore the weight of the world upon them, Arteus ventured forth into the emptiness that had once been the village, Barley. His eyes were drawn to the lifeless forms that lay scattered about like discarded rag dolls, each one a grim reminder of the warmth and life that had once filled the streets. The silence was a tomb, a mournful hymn that sang the dirge of a thousand untimely ends.
The village was a macabre tapestry of frozen figures, their eyes open in eternal surprise, their limbs twisted into shapes that no human should ever assume. The cold had claimed them swiftly, freezing the very air around them into a tableau of horror. Each face, a portrait of panic, forever frozen in the moment of their last, desperate breath.
Corpses littered the cobblestone streets like discarded mannequins, their once-vibrant garb now stiff with ice and tinged with the crimson of blood that had long ago ceased to flow. The windows of the cottages were shattered, their shards glinting like teeth in the early light, and through the jagged holes, more lifeless forms could be seen, contorted into grotesque poses of agony. The lamp posts, once guiding lights through the winter darkness, had become grim sentinels, their wooden arms adorned with the bodies of the villagers who had sought refuge from the frenzied stampede, only to find a different kind of death.
The faces of the deceased began to morph before Arteus' very eyes, each one a portrait of a memory long buried. The smithy, whose hammer had shaped the weapons and tools that had made the village thrive, now forever stilled, his hammer lodged in his head as his beard became a sculpture of frost. The village drunk, who had once told him drunken tales of heroes and gods, his eyes now vacant, a lamp post lodged into his eye socket as the stories of a thousand winters were at last silenced.
Marian's mother, the woman who had slammed the door in his face on a day long etched in his memory, lay beside her daughter. Her chest was caved in, her ribs jutting out like the twisted branches of a blighted tree. It was a gruesome sight, a grim reminder of the brutal fate that had visited the village. Arteus felt a knot of dread tighten in his stomach as he took in the scene before him.
He froze, in the village square, his heart pounding in his chest like a caged beast as a single thought dominated the hollow walls of his conscious.
"...mom..."
He had to find his mother.
With each step, Arteus felt the cold seep into his bones, as if the very ground was trying to claim him as its own. The once-familiar square of Barley had been transformed into a frigid stage of the macabre. Frozen in place, the villagers looked like statues of fear and despair, forever capturing the moment when the prophecy had descended upon them. The market stalls stood abandoned, their wares buried under a thick layer of ice that gleamed like a morbid jewelry display under the early morning light. The village bell, which had once rung out with the rhythm of life, was now a silent sentinel, its clapper frozen mid-swing, a mournful echo of the chaos that had come.
And in the centre of it all, a boy, once scorned as a curse upon the village, now alone. In it's circumference as one favoured by predicament.
Was he, all alone?
-A Couple Hours Later-
Arteus approached his home, a solitary sentinel in a world of shadows. The path he had but moments ago cleaved through the storm now lay buried beneath the relentless onslaught of the winter, yet he did not waver. The wind howled around him, a chorus of the damned, as he stumbled closer to the cottage that he called, home.
The door gaped like the mouth of a beast, revealing the chaos within. His heart a leaden weight, he stepped over the threshold, his gaze drawn to the crimson path that snaked its way to his mother's room.
"Mom...?" The words died in his throat, a feeble echo, as a monstrous form materialized from the gloom. A creature of the wilds, a yeti, a titan yeti, had invaded his abode, staining it with the essence of what he could only assume was his mother's blood.
The beast's fur, once as dark as the pits of night, was now a ghastly crimson, a gruesome testament to its savagery. It clutched Hanna's inert form in a grip that spoke of ownership, like a puppet in a play of horror.
...Arteus stood, a silent sentinel, as the creature advanced. His thoughts raced like the wind through the treetops, a tumult of vengeance and the warmth of his mother's embrace. Yet, fear had fled from him, leaving only a cold, burning rage that consumed him utterly.
The yeti, drew nearer, its eyes as cold and unfeeling as the ice that clung to the branches outside. As the beast's hand opened, revealing its true intent, Arteus felt the world around him come to a standstill.
With a swiftness that belied his tender years, he launched himself, a blur of fury in the dim light. His being sliced through the monster's flesh as if it were but a wisp of fog, and the creature's lifeblood spurted forth like a crimson fountain, painting the walls with a ghastly tableau of gore.
The beast fell, its massive form crushing the delicate instruments of Hannah's workspace, a place where she had sought answers and wisdom in the prolonged hours of the day. Arteus caught his mother's body, cradling her to him as if she were as light as the feathers of an angel, his eyes never straying from the creature that had dared to harm her.
With a gentle touch that seemed at odds with the rage that boiled within him, Arteus carried his mother to her room and laid her on her bed, her once-warm body now as cold and lifeless as the marble statues in the Royal Palace. He smoothed back her dark hair, now matted with the crimson of the yeti's wrath, and closed her eyes with trembling fingers. A tear fell, landing on her cheek, where it froze instantly, a crystal of sorrow that mirrored the pain in his heart.
Her face, once a bastion of warmth and comfort, was now a canvas of horror. The lines of fear and pain etched into her features spoke of the nightmare she had faced, the moments of terror that had been her final embrace. Her eyes, once full of love and wisdom, were now vacant, the light of her spirit extinguished by the brutal hand of the beast.
With trembling hands, Arteus closed his mother's mouth, her final scream silenced, forever trapped in the icy embrace of the grave. He took a deep breath, his chest heaving with the weight of his sorrow, and wrapped her limbless body in a pristine white sheet, a symbol of purity and innocence lost to the world's coldness. Each fold was a silent prayer, a gentle caress that whispered of his love and the protection she would never need again.
The cottage had become a tomb, a shrine to a love that had been as steadfast as the mountains that loomed over Avaricia. The silence was a heavy blanket that suffocated the air, pressing down upon his shoulders with the weight of his grief. But amidst this crushing emptiness, he found the strength to stand, to bear the burden of his mother's loss. For she had been his world, the warmth that had chased away the shadows of his past.
He opened his mouth to scream, to rail against the gods that had allowed this to happen. But no sound came forth. Instead, a sob tore through him, a primal expression of his agony. It was a sound that seemed to shake the very foundations of the earth, echoing through the deserted streets of Barley, a mournful wail that carried the weight of a thousand unshed tears.
With trembling hands, Arteus reached into his satchel and pulled out the melt flowers, their once-radiant petals now a sickly shade of blue, a reflection of the cold that had claimed his mother. He clutched them tightly to his chest, whispering apologies into her ear as if she could hear him, as if his words could warm her frozen heart.
"I'm sorry I didn't come sooner, Mom," he mumbled, his voice thick with emotion. "I'm sorry I wasn't here to protect you."
He pressed the lifeless flowers to her chest, his trembling fingers tracing the line of her heart. It was still, cold and silent, a stark contrast to the fiery warmth that had once beaten beneath it. Yet, he felt a strange warmth emanating from the melt flowers, a warmth that seemed to beckon to her, as if begging to share the vitality they had once contained.
"I'm sorry...and... thank you." Arteus choked out through his sobs, his voice a whisper in the tomb-like silence of the cottage. "Thank you for always putting me first." His words were a gentle caress upon the cold, unyielding surface of his mother's skin.
Matriach of the Montfreed household, Hanna Montfreed, had passed.
-To Be Continued-