taxGatherer
They say hunger is the best spice
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Frosted Veins In The Tundra
Västernorrland, 1893 — The Silence That Eats Men
You lift the rifle to your shoulder like lifting a prayer. The birches hold their breath. The snow swallows sound until even your heartbeat feels like a trespass. You have tracked the wolf since dawn, following the ragged trail of his limp through ice and thaw. Hunger, fear, duty. All those words blur in the cold. Only need remains.
He steps into the clearing, ribs sharp against the fur, breath rising in slow, heavy clouds. His eyes catch the light. Yellow, alive, merciless. You raise the rifle. The air cracks. He jerks, staggers, and collapses into the snow with a dull thud that echoes through the trees.
You walk closer. Blood steams where it meets the cold. It spreads through the snow like ink, thick and dark, crawling toward your boots. You kneel beside him. His chest still moves, shallow and trembling. You press your hand to his fur.
It’s warm, alive.
You could end it quickly, but your knife slips in too slow. He kicks once, claws raking your sleeve, and you feel his last breath rise against your face. The warmth of it lingers even as the light drains from his eyes.
You stand, shaking. The blood on your hands freezes in thin sheets. You turn toward home, toward the faint promise of smoke in the distance. You do not see the crack beneath the snow until it breaks open beneath you. The earth drops away. You fall hard, your ribs spearing through the cold like glass. The rifle slips from your grasp and lands somewhere below.
Pain floods you, sharp and absolute. You try to breathe but your lungs seize. The cold rushes in, faster than air. You press a hand to your side and feel something hot pumping through your fingers. You try to crawl, but your arms fail. The world narrows to the sound of your blood in the snow.
Above you, the forest moves. A whisper, a groan, a shifting weight. Then you hear it. A low, broken sound from the ridge. Another wolf. The mate, maybe. The cry cuts through the cold like a blade. You turn your head and see a shadow moving down the slope, slow, deliberate. You try to lift the rifle but your arms will not answer.
The wolf stops beside the dead one. Sniffs. Stares at you. For a moment everything stops. Breath, wind, thought. Then it moves. A flash of teeth, the crunch of bone, the wet heat of blood as your scream vanishes into the snow.
When the forest grows quiet again, there are only the trees, the red-streaked snow, and the soft fall of flakes over what’s left of man and beast. The world keeps breathing.
You don't.
Västernorrland, 1893 — The Silence That Eats Men
You lift the rifle to your shoulder like lifting a prayer. The birches hold their breath. The snow swallows sound until even your heartbeat feels like a trespass. You have tracked the wolf since dawn, following the ragged trail of his limp through ice and thaw. Hunger, fear, duty. All those words blur in the cold. Only need remains.
He steps into the clearing, ribs sharp against the fur, breath rising in slow, heavy clouds. His eyes catch the light. Yellow, alive, merciless. You raise the rifle. The air cracks. He jerks, staggers, and collapses into the snow with a dull thud that echoes through the trees.
You walk closer. Blood steams where it meets the cold. It spreads through the snow like ink, thick and dark, crawling toward your boots. You kneel beside him. His chest still moves, shallow and trembling. You press your hand to his fur.
It’s warm, alive.
You could end it quickly, but your knife slips in too slow. He kicks once, claws raking your sleeve, and you feel his last breath rise against your face. The warmth of it lingers even as the light drains from his eyes.
You stand, shaking. The blood on your hands freezes in thin sheets. You turn toward home, toward the faint promise of smoke in the distance. You do not see the crack beneath the snow until it breaks open beneath you. The earth drops away. You fall hard, your ribs spearing through the cold like glass. The rifle slips from your grasp and lands somewhere below.
Pain floods you, sharp and absolute. You try to breathe but your lungs seize. The cold rushes in, faster than air. You press a hand to your side and feel something hot pumping through your fingers. You try to crawl, but your arms fail. The world narrows to the sound of your blood in the snow.
Above you, the forest moves. A whisper, a groan, a shifting weight. Then you hear it. A low, broken sound from the ridge. Another wolf. The mate, maybe. The cry cuts through the cold like a blade. You turn your head and see a shadow moving down the slope, slow, deliberate. You try to lift the rifle but your arms will not answer.
The wolf stops beside the dead one. Sniffs. Stares at you. For a moment everything stops. Breath, wind, thought. Then it moves. A flash of teeth, the crunch of bone, the wet heat of blood as your scream vanishes into the snow.
When the forest grows quiet again, there are only the trees, the red-streaked snow, and the soft fall of flakes over what’s left of man and beast. The world keeps breathing.
You don't.
