Sunk Like Treasure

It was so terribly cold.

Snow was falling, and it was almost dark.

An outside observer would be forgiven for expecting another quiet night. As the sun fell and houses filled with their inhabitants, silence roared outside as the fluff of the snow took most of the noise.

But within a house sitting far from the town, a careful observer would have heard the wails of a man, long past the point of exhaustion, soon entering hysteria. His heavy cries were blunted by the snow, but anyone listening closely would have heard it instantly. Whether it was lucky for him that no one was around to hear is still up for debate.

What happened next would also become subject for argument. Some say it was an accident. Some say the man did it himself. Those who knew him best would say it started as an accident but the man thought it best to continue.

The little house he inhabited erupted into flames, with the orange light growing to be so bright, had there been anyone around for miles, they would have noticed, even in pitch black darkness. Through the trees, the brush and the snow, the flames would grow, a beacon of the man's misery.

Before the house could be swallowed, the man stumbled out into the cold snow, snuffing out flames on his person by rolling in a snowbank. His eyes were dry, as he became too dehydrated to cry nearly an hour ago. As he stared at the flames that took everything that remained of his life, for the first time in probably a very long time, the man's eyes lit up. His mouth formed what might be considered a smile, feeble as it might have been. His face contorted itself into something resembling a grim sense of joy as he watched the remnants of a life he no longer wished for become devoured by a monster that would leave no survivors.

The man stood up, shaking off the snow, and held his hands out to the fire, warming himself. It was clear that the cold had become preferable to whatever was inside the home. He had been the only one inside at the time. The other inhabitant had left nearly a week ago now, leaving the man to his own devices, however reluctant. For nearly a week, he had been trapped, staring at drawings from a daughter long gone, letters from a love now snuffed out, and photographs from a time long since passed. Even the happiest of memories became bitter and the man found solace only in drink.

Contrary to what stories would be told later, he stood in front of his burning home fully sober, drunk only by the ecstasy of a fresh start, cutting every tie to anything and everything that had brought him sorrow.

The fire itself had danced as if it felt the man's joy. Quickly, it bounced from wall to wall, swallowing anything it could find. Letters became ash, drawings became memory, and memories became fuel. With great energy, the fire ate and ate until it had nothing left to fill its appetite. The trees of the forest were too far away, and the ground was covered in a substance forbidden to the great beast. Once everything had been devoured, it slowly starved and died. Fleeting is the existence of a beast who lives so explosively.

The man left, content to let whatever remnants remain freeze in the winter's fury. He trudged through the virgin snow. Thoughts of a new life raced through his mind so fast he hardly had time to process just how cold it was. He moved as if carried by something else. It was as if his legs themselves had gained sentience and he was along for the ride. In his mind was his wife, who had recently declared her newly-found hatred for the man she once promised she'd spend the rest of her life with. He then thought of his daughter, whose fever became too much for her little body to handle. He thought of how dearly she was missed, and how badly he longed for redemption in the eyes of his lover.

But a new man, it turns out, has no need for redemption. He has committed no sin. Baptized by fire and forged in snow, he would trudge on, letting his legs carry him as far as they could handle, warmed by the spirit of whoever he was to become next, and motivated by the possibility of the unknown. He continued walking to the town's square, miles away, after hours had passed. It was lit up, but remained vacant. He considered, for a moment, curling up under a bench and sleeping until someone found him and took him in. He thought about knocking on the door of a nearby inn and begging mercy from its owner so that he might have a warm bed.

But the excitement of this new life kept him moving. Little did he know I followed from a distance, getting closer and closer with every step in the freshly-fallen snow. He kept going, past the light of the town, into the woods, his path lit only by the light reflecting off the snow. Lucky for him, he could clearly see where he was going. His determination to reach an unknown destination distracted him from the fact he could no longer feel his toes. His night gown was thin enough to where a lesser man would have felt the bite of the cold over an hour ago. But he was warmed by a new life.

For another hour, he kept going, being met only by the trees of the forest, each one holding their branches low enough for the man to have to duck through, but nonetheless filled with as much life as the man's former self. The trees stayed silent, but the wind howled, keeping the man company as he whistled to match its tune. Soon, that whistle became a song, and that song became a wail.

Another remnant of his past life. The song that had made his little girl smile and his wife laugh. He shook his head to expel the thought. But his past life would not leave. He slowed down. He felt the cold. His toes were too far gone. His fingers were blue. Very suddenly, he noticed the futility of his situation. But it had been long past too late.

I came closer and he was suddenly aware of My presence. Slowly, he sat down, his aches and pains disappearing, and the bite of the cold suddenly tolerable, not because of any sort of spark of life, but of a new realization: nothing mattered anymore. Maybe it hadn't for a long time.

The fact that I was close enough to touch him didn't seem to make a difference.

But then, they all accept Me in the end.

The snow would fall faster and his body wouldn't be found until spring. His burnt house would be found the next morning, but the snow would cover the man's footsteps. The town would mourn him and, in time, even his former lover would forgive him for a crime she knew deep down he never committed. They were both innocent, she recognized, but that didn't even matter in the end. Her daughter glowed with the light of innocence even in her final breath.

She would later write stories of her departed lover, about his new life, and of his devotion to their growing daughter.