Beyond the Cold Wastes, Chapter Two

ii. The Living Plains

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   Several days and nights had passed by the time Griffith reached the edge of the burial forest. Everywhere behind him had been crumbling skeletons and the creak of old ropes; now, there was once more the blesséd, curséd silence. His sword had returned to its neutral temperature, Griffith noted mildly; it had been frozen for so long he was surprised to find it normal once more. It was good that, being an ascendant, he had no need to eat; there was nothing here, in all the forest, except the sad monotony of trees and dust.

   Now he stood beneath the last of the great trunks, on the verge of a flourishing grassland. It was doubtless the source of the grasses for the grass-mats and the ropes; out there, there must be life, Griffith assured himself. The sun was still low in the sky - it was still morning - and lent a stunning contrast to the rolling hills before him, outlining every single leaf and blade of grass in view as if they had been painted there.

   Ah, and there were flowers here, and honeybees among them, glossy in the morning light. Griffith found himself revelling in the great feathery clouds, high in the sky, floating overhead, and among them, the silhouettes of far-off birds reached Griffith's eyes and gave him hope.

   Hope that, out there, he was not alone.

   He stepped cautiously into the sunlight, afraid of its direct touch after such a long time in the shadows, and, finding it warm and welcoming as it ever was, ran out into the plains, heart rejoicing in the glory of the sun. Soul ablaze, he continued north, leaping and flourishing his blade at the sky with all the fleeting happiness of a prisoner set free.

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