Chapter 6: Companion in the Cold
Year 0001, XII - XIII Month: The Imperium
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A Naked New Day
The snowfall had finally subsided. Winter was reluctantly loosening its grip on the land, and the promise of spring whispered through the more temperate air—a welcome change for everyone who had endured the brutal cold. For August, who had survived alone in this abandoned village, it meant the difference between mere existence and the possibility of truly living again.
August stepped outside his dwelling, stretching his limbs with deliberate motions. He savored the newfound freedom to move without the bitter bite of frost threatening to freeze him solid. His muscles, tense from weeks of confinement, gradually relaxed in the gentler morning air. The sky above had cleared to a pale blue, unmarred by the heavy clouds that had dominated for so long.
As part of his morning ritual—a discipline he had imposed upon himself to maintain both physical resilience and mental fortitude—he prepared for his quick plunge into the snow. This self-administered cold therapy had become a cornerstone of his daily routine, a way to harden himself against the elements and against the softer parts of his nature that might lead to complacency.
The past few weeks had been merciless, with temperatures that made breathing painful and turned extremities numb in minutes. But now, the weather is becoming increasingly bearable. His leather and fur tunic—an item he had "appropriated" from the chief's wardrobe before claiming it as his own—would be sufficient to keep him warm outside once he completed his ritual.
At the moment, however, he stood completely naked in the open air, his pale skin prickling against the cold as he centered his breath. Steam rose from his body in the frigid morning air. With practiced determination, he braced himself for the freezing dive ahead, mentally preparing for the shock that never failed to steal his breath.
Something Odd…Chilling…Nerve-Wracking
After drying himself by the crackling hearth and dressing in his usual attire—the tunic layered over a rough-spun shirt and leather breeches—August stepped back outside to survey his domain. The village lay still and silent around him, a collection of abandoned structures that stood as monuments to lives abruptly ended. His footprints from previous days created pathways through the otherwise pristine snow.
Everything seemed normal at first glance—the same desolate beauty he had grown accustomed to during his solitary existence. Then his gaze fell upon something disconcerting, something he had somehow overlooked the previous day despite his usual vigilance.
And then, he noticed it—a trail of, small and uneven prints, that had been partially covered by the heavy snowfall during the night. They led directly to the storage building, disappearing inside the shadowed doorway.
The door to his secondary house—the structure where he meticulously stored most of the useful tools and the miscellaneous items he had deemed important for survival—stood slightly ajar, a dark crack marring its otherwise closed facade.
Panic surged through him like a bolt of lightning, electrifying every nerve and setting his heart racing. In all his time here, he had been methodical about securing his possessions, knowing that carelessness could mean death in this unforgiving environment.
Without hesitation, he dashed back inside his primary dwelling, his movements urgent but precise. His fingers wrapped around the simple bow he had found in the chief's house—a weapon he had initially struggled to draw but had since mastered through diligent practice. He grabbed the accompanying quiver, filling it with a handful of arrows. In just a few days of training, he had finally gained the necessary strength to pull back the bowstring consistently—a feat that had become an integral part of his endurance regimen.
He had deemed archery a necessary skill for survival, particularly with the approach of spring when he intended to venture beyond the village perimeter for hunting. Now, it seemed he might need to employ those skills sooner and for a more immediate threat.
Back outside, August took up a defensive position, raising the bow and drawing an arrow to aim at the slightly open doorway across the snow-covered path. His breathing, initially erratic, gradually steadied as his training took over. His body remained tense, coiled like a spring, ready to react to any threat. He crept forward with measured steps, each placement of his foot deliberately silent despite the crunching snow beneath.
His heart pounded violently against his ribcage as he approached the entrance, the sound of his pulse thundering in his ears. After several deep breaths to steady himself, he summoned his voice, though it emerged shakier than he would have preferred.
"H-Hello? Is anyone there?"
The silence that answered him was absolute, disturbed only by the soft whistle of wind through the abandoned village.
A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead despite the cold. His grip on the bow tightened until his knuckles whitened.
He took another deep breath, exhaling slowly to calm his fraying nerves. His mind raced with possibilities, each more unsettling than the last. If not an animal, a beast, or some unnamable monster from the wilderness beyond, then what could have disturbed his sanctuary? Had someone—another survivor perhaps—broken in? Had he simply forgotten to secure the door properly, or had the wind managed to push it open despite his precautions?
August strained to recall his last visit. He was almost certain he had secured the door—the routine was ingrained in him now. Or had he? The uncertainty gnawed at him like a hungry beast, fueling his anxiety with each passing moment. Was his mind playing cruel tricks on him? Could this paranoia be the first sign of his isolation taking a psychological toll, the trauma of all he had endured finally manifesting in forgetfulness or delusion?
He scratched his head roughly, frustration bubbling to the surface as fear threatened to paralyze him.
"What do I do...?" he whispered to himself, the sound of his own voice oddly comforting in the oppressive silence.
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Forward With Courage!
After a moment of tense contemplation, August steeled his resolve. Regardless of what waited inside—intruder, animal, or nothing at all—he had to investigate. Ignorance was a luxury he could not afford; if there was an intruder, he needed to know immediately.
With slow, calculated movements born of newfound caution, he pressed his back firmly against the rough wooden wall beside the door. The cold from the timber seeped through his clothing, but he barely noticed, his focus entirely on the task at hand. He yanked the bowstring back once more, knocking an arrow and holding it at the ready. Then, inch by painstaking inch, he pushed the door further open with his foot.
The familiar interior gradually revealed itself to his searching gaze. Nothing appeared out of place—the collection of tools remained organized against the far wall, the stockpile of dried provisions seemed undisturbed, and the various trinkets and useful items he had salvaged from other houses still occupied their designated spaces.
But this apparent normalcy did nothing to calm his frayed nerves. His heartbeat remained erratic, his breath shaky and shallow. It felt as if his heart might burst through his chest at any moment, driven by adrenaline and primal fear.
He took one cautious step inside, then another, his bow raised and ready to loose its deadly projectile at the first sign of threat. Every shadow seemed to conceal danger, every creaking floorboard under his weight made his skin crawl with anticipation. Sweat continued to form on his brow and temple despite the cold, occasionally dripping into his eyes and momentarily blurring his vision before he hastily blinked it away.
Room by room, he methodically checked the first floor, moving with the careful precision of a hunter stalking particularly dangerous prey. After confirming the ground level was secure, he descended into the root cellar, half-expecting to find a wild animal that had sought shelter from the cold. But there, too, everything remained untouched, the preserved vegetables and dried meats still hanging from the low ceiling beams.
Relief gradually began to wash over him, though he remained vigilant.
"Maybe it really was just the wind," he murmured to himself, wanting to believe this simplest explanation.
But one area remained unchecked—the second floor with its several rooms that he rarely checked. Whatever had opened that door might still be lurking above.
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The Final Hurdle, A Beauty
The wooden staircase groaned protestingly beneath his weight as he ascended, each step feeling heavier than the last as apprehension built within him. The upper floor was colder, the air stale from disuse. August cleared two empty rooms—a child's bedroom with a small bed frame and a storage space filled with broken furniture—before finally reaching the master bedroom at the end of the narrow hallway. This was the last door left unopened, the final space to clear before he could truly relax.
Swallowing hard against the dryness in his throat, he pressed trembling fingers against the weathered wood and slowly pushed the door open.
*Creeeak...*
The prolonged sound of rusted hinges shattered the silence, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. His breath hitched in his throat as the room's interior came into view.
Lying motionless on the large bed was a figure, partially obscured by shadows and the thick layer of dust that coated everything in the long-abandoned room.
His blood ran cold at the sight. His entire body stiffened as if suddenly turned to stone. His nerves screamed at him to flee, to put as much distance as possible between himself and this unknown entity.
Without conscious thought, purely on instinct, he slammed the door shut.
*Bang!*
The sound reverberated through the empty house like a thunderclap. August stumbled backward in panic, his back colliding roughly with the opposite wall of the narrow hallway. His face drained of color, cold sweat now pouring freely down his forehead and neck. His fingers trembled uncontrollably around the bowstring, threatening to release the arrow prematurely.
"Damn it!" he hissed under his breath, the curse emerging as a shaky whisper.
For what felt like an eternity, he simply stood there, back pressed against the wall, forcing himself to regain control of his breathing. After several deep, deliberate breaths that gradually slowed his racing heart, he managed to gather enough courage to peek inside once more. Cautiously, he cracked the door open just enough to peer through with one eye.
The figure on the bed hadn't moved an inch.
His heartbeat, while still rapid, began to slow to a more manageable pace as he scrutinized the silhouette from the relative safety of the doorway. Was it human? An animal that had somehow found its way inside? Or something else entirely—something beyond his understanding?
After another round of mental preparation, whispering reassurances to himself, he stepped into the room with exaggerated caution, his bow still drawn and ready. He edged closer to the bed with glacial slowness, watching intently for any sudden movement. When close enough, he hesitantly extended the end of his bow to poke the figure, ready to leap back at the slightest response.
No reaction came.
Emboldened by this lack of response, he took a few more decisive steps forward. His heart continued its violent rhythm against his ribcage. But when he finally drew close enough to properly see through the dim light filtering through the dusty window, he realized—
It was a girl.
She appeared to be around his age, perhaps ten or twelve years. Her face possessed a delicate quality, with fine features that seemed almost ethereal despite their pallor. Most striking was her hair—white as the snow outside with a silvery sheen, cascading over the moth-eaten sheets in stark contrast to the dull surroundings. By any standard, not just his isolation-skewed perception, she was undeniably beautiful—hauntingly so.
He stared at her in stunned silence, his mind momentarily blank as he struggled to process this unexpected discovery. Then, a critical thought cut through his confusion—was she even alive?
Quickly, he set down his bow and removed a glove, revealing a calloused hand that he cautiously held close to her slightly parted lips.
A faint breath, almost imperceptible, warmed his palm.
She was still alive—but barely. The shallow, irregular rhythm of her breathing suggested she hovered precariously on the threshold between life and death.
His chest tightened with sudden concern. If he didn't act quickly, decisively, she would slip away before his eyes. He had witnessed enough death since the catastrophe—had carried the weight of too many lost lives in his conscience. He refused to stand by and watch another person fade, especially one who had somehow survived against impossible odds only to die in an abandoned bedroom.
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Saving the Girl from the Grasps of Death
Without further hesitation or deliberation, August carefully scooped her up in his arms. She was lighter than he had anticipated, her body frail from what must have been prolonged exposure and malnutrition. Her skin felt like ice against his, sapping his warmth instantly. Holding her securely in a princess carry, he rushed from the room, down the creaking stairs, out of the storage house, and back across the snow-covered path to his own dwelling.
The fire in his hearth had dwindled during his absence but still provided a nucleus of warmth. Gently, he laid her down on his sleeping pallet positioned near the fire pit. With urgent movements, he grabbed armfuls of wood from his carefully maintained stockpile and stoked the flames until they roared with renewed vigor, casting dancing shadows across the walls and bathing the room in life-giving heat.
He gathered every blanket and fur he possessed—items scavenged from throughout the village during his first days of solitude—and methodically wrapped her in them, layer by layer. He cocooned her completely, trapping the growing warmth from the fire against her frozen body. Her face remained exposed, allowing him to monitor her condition as color gradually returned to her bloodless lips.
She now resembled a peculiar, bulky package—a poorly wrapped food parcel reminiscent of something from a distant past he had long forgotten or had been deliberately erased from his memory by the "system". But aesthetics didn't matter. The sole priority was keeping her alive, giving her fragile flame of life the chance to strengthen and grow.
As time passed—minutes stretching into hours—visible changes occurred in her condition. The sickly, almost translucent paleness of her skin slowly gave way to a healthier hue as blood flow returned to her extremities. Her breathing, initially so shallow it was barely perceptible, steadied and deepened. However, as her body temperature normalized, a fever set in—her body's natural defense mechanism working to fight whatever ailments she might have contracted during her mysterious journey.
Recognizing the signs of fever, August removed some of the outer layers to prevent dangerous overheating. With a clean cloth dipped in cool water, he gently wiped away the sweat that had begun to bead on her forehead, his movements unexpectedly tender for hands that had grown accustomed to harsher tasks.
He tended to her with surprising dedication, checking her temperature regularly and adjusting her coverings as needed. In truth, he couldn't fully explain, even to himself, why he was going to such lengths for a complete stranger. Perhaps it was simply the human connection he craved after so long alone, or perhaps some deeply buried instinct for compassion that had survived the trauma of recent months.
Or perhaps he just couldn't bear the thought of losing another person—of adding another face to the gallery of the dead that haunted his dreams.
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Undead!?!
As she continued her healing slumber, August busied himself preparing a simple meal—a nourishing broth similar to what his mother used to make during the coldest months of winter. The recipe was one of the few comforts he had carried with him from his former life before the village massacre occured: root vegetables and preserved meat simmered with herbs he had discovered dried in kitchen stores throughout the village.
The aroma of the cooking food gradually filled the small house, rich and inviting. The familiar smell made his stomach growl insistently, reminding him that he had been too preoccupied with his unexpected guest to eat anything since early morning.
As the savory scent of the broth permeated the air—
A rustling sound broke the quiet.
August's gaze darted toward the girl. The enticing smell must have penetrated her unconscious state, awakening primal hunger. Her body stirred beneath the layers of blankets, fingers twitching visibly above the coverings. Then, to his astonishment, her wrapped form began to rise slowly from the pallet—an uncanny movement reminiscent of tales he'd heard as a child about the myths of the undead rising from their graves.
Bewildered and momentarily alarmed, he quickly retrieved his bow from where it leaned against the wall, gripping it firmly but silently. He remained ready to defend himself if necessary, though something in him resisted the thought of harming this mysterious visitor.
Then, her eyes fluttered open.
Golden irises, unusual and striking, with an unexpected warmth that contradicted the initial impression of otherworldliness. They seemed to glow in the firelight, capturing and reflecting the dancing flames.
Their gazes locked—her golden eyes meeting his emerald ones across the small space of the hut.
For a suspended moment that seemed to stretch beyond the confines of time, August held his breath in anticipation, unsure what would happen next. Would she speak? Attack? Reveal herself as something beyond human understanding?
Then, as suddenly as she had awakened, consciousness fled from her once more. Her eyes rolled back, and she collapsed onto the pallet without uttering a sound.
August approached cautiously, bow still in hand though lowered now. He knelt beside her and carefully removed most of the constraining blankets, leaving only a few necessary layers to maintain warmth without restricting her movement or breathing. As he worked, he studied her face more closely, noting features that seemed too fine, too perfect to belong to someone who had survived the harsh winter on their own.
Who was she? Where had she come from? And how had she found her way to this abandoned village in the dead of winter? The questions multiplied in his mind, unanswered yet increasingly intriguing.
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She Rises Once More
The next time consciousness stirred the mysterious girl awake, she found herself no longer bound by the tight cocoon of blankets. Only a few essential coverings remained wrapped around her body, providing warmth without confinement. Her golden eyes, clearer now but still heavy-lidded from exhaustion, drifted around the unfamiliar dwelling, taking in details of her surroundings before seeking the person she vaguely remembered seeing before.
Her gaze finally settled on August, who stood nearby, tension evident in his posture. In one hand, he held a steaming wooden bowl; in the other, his bow remained, not quite aimed at her but ready nonetheless. The conflicting items spoke volumes about his uncertainty—caretaker and guard, hospitable yet wary.
She didn't speak. She didn't move. Her golden eyes simply observed him with an unreadable expression, neither grateful nor hostile, as if she were assessing him just as carefully as he had assessed her.
August hesitated, shifting his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other, then awkwardly extended the bowl toward her.
"Umm... Here. Eat this. Slowly," he offered, the words emerging in an uncertain stammer, his tongue seemingly tying itself in knots. It had been so long since he had spoken to another person that the simple act of communication felt foreign.
Still, she made no movement to accept his offering or acknowledge his words. Her continued silence and stillness unnerved him further.
His heart pounded with renewed intensity as questions multiplied in his mind.
Was she really just a lost girl who had somehow wandered into the village seeking shelter? Or had she arrived with others, perhaps scouts for a larger group? The latter possibility sent a chill down his spine—he had grown protective of his solitary domain.
If she had traveled here alone, surviving the harsh winter conditions that would have claimed so many others, wouldn't that make her extraordinary in her own right? To endure what even well-prepared villagers couldn't...
Or was she something else entirely? A fairy from the ancient stories his grandmother used to tell? A divine messenger? Or something darker, more dangerous, merely wearing the appearance of a vulnerable girl?
August continued to hold the bowl toward her, arm growing tired, as their silent standoff continued. The only sounds in the small dwelling were the crackling of the fire and their mismatched breathing—his quick and nervous, hers slow and measured.
Who—or what—had he brought into his sanctuary?