As the waves of the sea coolly touch down on the shore, long green grass sways along the edge of the deserted banks. Frost coats the blades of grass, which glitters weakly under the feeble light of the sun, glissading across the soil below. Winding footprints have been cast onto the frost—large for a man.
The footprints lead to an age-worn wooden boat abandoned on the shore. The sides are rusty, and the planks show damage, evidently having stood their ground against furious waves.
Following the haunting footprints would reveal: a boy of near stature to a grown man is standing dead as the winds whip around. The freezing air bites at his bare skin and golden hair flying free in the wind.
Windswept snow blankets his face, and his cheeks glow like a bare bruise. His weary eyes grow dim like that of any old man, for it seems like childhood was robbed from him by time. His wet clothing is like a whip in the freezing breeze that mercilessly coats his trembling body.
The back of his hands grips tightly in a back carry, a wailing baby fastened behind. The cries of the little one ring sorrowfully through the lonely ambiance in the mourning wind, as one coincides with the other.
Lost along the path, feeling like lost in another world, he combats the memories stabbing at him. A whisper fills his mind, heard like the tolling of an abandoned church. Every step sinks deeper into the snow, as if the earth itself is trying to bury him. Each hesitant step, the whispers grow hysterical, drowning in the echoes of screams, the memories forever haunting.
Nightmares come alive: wooden shanties burn, small bodies tumble like burnt leaves, and muffled cries are heard. He whips his head from side to side, trying to shake them off, only to have them return with a vengeance stronger than before.
Through the agony comes the Mother vision; she is unbroken. He sees her lead him to the boat, clutching a baby in her arms. The moment comes: arrows pierce through her body and she drops to the ground as the boat calmly leaves shore. Her last message to him becomes engraved on his mind: "Return and avenge, my son."
The terrible silence is shattered at last by his hoarse cry: "Return and avenge!" Over and over again he repeats the words until his lips bleed, drowning in the wails of the infant.
His strength subsides, waning like a dimming candle. He sways like some bough in the wind, then falls prostrate. Yet, as if in instinctive defense, his arms shield the baby. His tired eyes shut; the last thing he ever sees is the glory of the sun sinking down behind the white mountains, pouring golden rays as a final farewell, glittering on the snow like frozen tears.
In his waning consciousness, approaching human silhouettes appeared, like pathways slipping into dreams. But, again, shadows encircle, warding him off into a profound slumber.