High above the world, the snows first came down, wisping crystals of beauty and of discord. They sowed themselves into our dirt and ground, whilst we laughed and sculpted with them. Only beginning to question their moment and quantity when the skies themselves were hidden forevermore. Those in charge boasted of their thoughts, and complained of the lack of certainties, long before all was lost beneath the cold.

They spoke of a forgotten change, of the warmth to come, as if it were the solution and not the very cause that now killed the crops long before they found the dirt. They proudly proclaimed their heart for every man, as they set up the camps, and divided the human seed, such that some would live, and some would die. The survivors left to proclaim the works of those above.

We were praised for drawing near and declaring them our refuge, even as they feasted on the works of our hands, and our mighty fell.

Dull roots cry for the spring rain that will never more fall again, memories and desire stirring for what now lies lost. The dust of the lilacs is forgotten in this dead land. Those above turned their eye upon each other in jealousy and rage, and became as forgotten as the shadows that do not dare to stalk those that wade upon the snow from this world to the next, ever searching for what may never again be found.

Yet, a spark of hope.

As all lies broken and beaten, there rises but one thing, that is true and always has been true. The gifts of kindness that fall with desperation, have a kernel found deep within, of the acknowledgement of men lying equal with each other. That from one stranger to another, all are owed just a taste of this hospitality, the gift of the gods, of Xenia.

So it was when one bitter and broken man lay by the hearth, burning what lay left of books and broken words of world that doomed itself to die. He shivered as he crumpled pages of symbols he no longer had the fortitude to read, before dismissing them in the sparks and ash of the choking warmth.

The house was a discovery, a fallen ruin along his path, from one place to the next, in hope of roots and nourishment. It held paintings and mirrors, broken from the frost, unable to display the artist's cause. Floorboards frozen solid, unrotten, and walls mostly intact though the windows were as dust as the rest hidden beneath the snow.

A library of hoarded words gifted him frozen breath into the air, an empire of thought now reduced to nothing more than the pyre.

When a creak came upon the boards, then the man started his feet, with a hand to the spear by his side. Desperation of the void hungered, screaming twisting visions of destruction and death, fevering and feeding upon the fear that came by man's side since the falling tears of dear Pandora. It twisted up and took the vision of the man, such that when he saw the shadows by the door, the spear flew forward with its own dreams of Gáe Bulg, of the javelin's strike and the barbs that might open hence, to take life without mercy and plant the death to sure existence.

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The door fell away, and by sheer presence the man behind lay unharmed. A snow covered hood covering the head, and fur hiding the face of the demon within. They held a dagger upright, a knife to split flesh from bone, yet it shook in the grip uncertain.

The two faced each other, seeing nothing but one who might take their life. A relentless journey of hardship through the unforgiving tundra, a place where every moment must be fought for. Where they had long since forgotten why they might try and persist.

Knife fell to the ground, as both found themselves in waiting. Ready to welcome in the dark and take the journey. No coin to offer the oarsman, but ready for the passage all the same. Happy to fall below into the river, so long as to be free from this bitter life.

It took a moment before each discovered the other in waiting.

The newcomer removed their hood, revealing a scarred and battered face. Shrouded beneath a deep red beard, curled towards the heavens, and bristling with the cold. The other indicated the fire, so that they might both huddle beside the gift of fallen society, words spoken by nothing but the smoke now rising.

Neither spoke as they came together, death and hatred already forgotten. Fear defeated by the simple gift of acknowledging the personage of the one they now found themselves beside. Comradeship strangled but trying to rise, to push aside the hated lies that cried of how untrustworthy any difference might be.

The newcomer produced a single black and bitter oblong from within a pocket, wrapping it within the paper before placing it among the coals of the fire. Willingly giving food to their host, blessing them, where blessings had not been found. A gift for a stranger, calling forth the changing tides of fate's horrid design.

Surprised by generosity, the host does all they can, finding softness of bed for both to lie upon, to look upon the embers through the night. With timid touch each finds the other. Holding hands as lovers once only could, before that a gift of brothers, now found anew. Two alone, two together, beneath the frosty shroud of Atlas, the last age of man lying in its final throes, the Iron Age now ended. No more innovation, no more gifts of god to man, the end of moral strength lying in the hatred that each had for the other.

Morals decayed and peeled apart, to find the gifts that cry for survival. Yet that alone does not make for the truth of man. Hand-in-hand, two strangers found it once more. Without a single word they exchanged all the debates of the saints and sainted heroes of the past, to discover where salvation lies, the hope which alone could rebuild their worlds.

For all their flaws, a man remains a man, and each person a gift in their own onesome.

Eos whispered of a dawn, of the warmth that could encompass the world, to thaw the cold and break this hated curse. She begged the two of them, who found nothing but peace and sleep, holding hand in hand.

Early in the morning, before both awoke, one left quietly. Leaving behind their gift for the other, and traipsing out upon the wilderness. Afraid of giving anything else, afraid to lose themself in kindness to the other. They stepped upon the snow, each shift of tired thighs driving them one breath forward and into the tundra.