COLD
Written on May 7, 2023 (♉︎︎︎)
It was February; of course there would still be snow towards Fovoham. After the unseasonably warm weeks at Dorter, Delita had forgotten they were not in the midst of a real spring. The time had almost escaped him. Almost.
It was February; it was still a week before her birthday.
There had been morning frost on the ground when they passed through the windflats, and Ramza--forgetful himself--had realized then that they were dreadfully under-equipped. They kept pushing north anyway. The younger cadets lost their hopes of turning back to Gariland for thicker coats or heavier blankets long before the first flurry. Those with spellcraft did what they could to keep the company in workable shape even if they couldn't keep them in comfort. Everyone slept two to a bedroll.
It was no novelty to Delita; he had been sleeping in such an arrangement for a while. As the muddy slush turned to ice turned to patches of fresh fallen snow, the only real change was that Ramza gripped him tighter, face pressed fast against his neck like some soft animal seeking its shelter. Delita tried as best he could to return the embrace. There was a comfort, he supposed to having some part of the world grip him that hard--to feel that there was something tethering him to the earth and out of all his wild thoughts. He remembered the Lenalian highlands and wondered if winter had reached poor Miluda Folles' shallow grave--enough to save her from beasts and bloat. He remembered the plains beneath where the grass was already grown high, and wondered if there was really one sky encircling them all.
It was when they were a little past the Gulg, one day out, that he parted from his companion. Delita pried Ramza's fingers away from his shoulder and out of his hair; he crawled out from under him, leaving only the ghost of his own body's heat to warm the youth's blood. Ramza flinched a little in his sleep, but did not awaken.
As he walked out into the snow and moonlight, Delita felt the impression of all those places he had once been warmed in turn, the wind cutting colder against them. It was of little matter, he thought. The pain of that chill was almost welcome.
It kept him awake, and he had no intention of sleeping that night.
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