It’s always cold here. Toes are always frozen, fingers likewise. It gets to the point you can no longer remember the feeling in your hands. It’s just as well, not feeling your hands helps you forget about the blood on them.

  I haven't felt the cold for some time now. After a while, this harsh land freezes your consciousness as well and you cease to feel anything at all, only numb. There once was a time I felt the weight of the rifle in my hands, but not anymore. That time has long since passed.

  The cities are warm, much warmer than the towns and villages that surround them, but the people inside are just as numb. Yet we can still feel this forsaken country's wounds, and know it is the fault of the Authorities.

  We chose the Authorities to rule the Frozen Country, and they betrayed us. The ones we handpicked to be our leaders lead us to destruction. Yes, this country is more powerful than ever, but its people are weak, frozen, and numb. We are suffocating under our own power, for we are the cold and powerless.

  They wish to take me as well, the Authorities that is. They take all the strong young men in this land for their army. That is where the real heat is, in their barracks and camps; big roaring fireplaces to which the whole world bows down to. But I would rather be cold. I would rather die for the morals I believe in than live fighting for the ones I do not. I would rather be frozen.

***************

The first time I saw her was on one of the rare occasions I went into the city. Even frozen outcasts like me need to eat every once in a while, though it is all too often, too rarely. She was immediately recognizable as a foreigner from one of the warmer southern countries with her tanned skin. The sun doesn't show itself around here, not since the factories clouded the sky and poisoned the air. She also wasn’t dressed for the weather. Sure, she would have been fine for a few hours on a southern mountain, but not for the unrelenting frost of the Frozen Country.

  The sight was strange to me, I never saw a living foreigner outside the Authorities' posts, where they were imported from the conquered countries to serve as maids and servants. I had seen a few dead ones in the bonfires the Authorities were fond of using to dispose of their victims, the ground had been too frozen to dig graves for centuries. Besides, the cemeteries would stretch out for miles. But this, a random girl on the street, this was new. She was obviously an escaped slave, probably off the train being she was still in her native clothing. It was also doubtless she would soon be discovered by the Authorities and brought back. She stuck out like a candle on a moonless night, huddled there against the brick wall. Once an officer's rounds brought him this way, she would be found and dragged off to a dungeon somewhere until she was put to work or death, depending on how generous the Authorities felt that day. She might just end up starving if they forgot about her, as they were prone to doing.

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  I don't know why I gave her my undercoat, I certainly couldn't spare it. I may have never seen a foreigner outside the posts, but I had seen many of my own people freeze on these streets and just passed them by. I remember thinking the native garb might disguise her enough for an officer to miss her, if he didn't look too closely. Even that was unlikely, officers noticed everything. But it gave her some hope of going unseen for at least a little while longer. The thought settled my long numb consciousness, though she didn’t acknowledge my presence when I threw the coat at her. It didn’t matter. Whether she chose to use it or not was her prerogative, I did my part by offering. I spotted her hiding beneath it from the corner of my eye as I walked away. Smart, she would be less likely to be noticed of a lost coat than as a person.

***************

  I was surprised when, the next morning, I found her in the same spot. At first, I figured she must have frozen to death in the night. But as I approached to investigate she stuck her arm out to offer my coat back.

  “Keep it, ” I told her. “I’ll get another.”

  She shook her head and pushed the coat into my hands before quickly retreating. I grabbed her arm before she could get too far to reach. She struggled a bit, but I held firm.

  “You'll freeze without it.”

  I briefly wondered if she could understand me, then reminded myself I shouldn't care. I couldn't afford to care. I didn't even know why I was trying to help this stupid girl. If she wanted to die, I should let her.

  I let her go. She sat down and glared at me. Her eyes held a kind of stubborn fire. They burned a bright, though admittedly muddy, green. There was also fear.

  She shivered. Her lips had taken on a purple hue, and her skin was considerably paler than the night before. She was frozen, too.

  I sighed. I really had no idea why I was doing this.

  “Get up.”

  She scowled and shook her head.

  “I said get up,” I said in a firmer tone, showing her the rifle hidden under my coat. That got her attention. She stood, eyes wide and full of masked fear, like a cornered street mutt. I reclaimed her arm. "You're coming with me," I muttered. Her struggles didn't do her much good; she was malnourished, and I was strong from years of fighting.