Minute Footprints in the Snow

In the early hours of the morn, as the final meagre embers of the fire fade and crackle away, as the birds sing their odes, Hyperion's grace ascends and falls, bathing the mountains in gold, and she arises from her slumber, vanquishing the dying cinders, and greeting the indifferent permafrost with a quaint familiarity. Her home is naught but the clothes on her back, and her possessions the supplies in her pack. This is the life of her, a small life, that smolders softly, but with radiant passion.

Journal Entry 0 ~ Genesis

I don't know who I am. I don't know how I ended up here. I don't have any memory of what life was before I came to this place. All I know is that something is waiting. Across the mountains. Where the sun sets. Something is, must be, waiting there. It has to be. I feel it in my heart.

When she comes to, she is lying nude in the snow. Surrounding her are great mountain ridges, blanketed by snow and ice, intersperced with connifers; they too are touched by snow, glistening in the sunlight, like shining legions. The snow falls slowly from the heavens, a light rain of stinging beauty. With her is a pack containing apparel—most notable are the long, insulated pants; the exterior sleek, smooth, black, the interior soft, fuzzy, gray, and the heavy, purple, hooded overcoat; hanging down below her knees, it will provide her with much needed warmth. Among other articles are a white, fluffy winter cap; although oversized, the extra surface area will only add to its effectiveness, and a pair of brown winter boots; a snug fit, but soft, and certain to protect her feet from the biting frost. The remaining pieces include undergarments, thick socks, leggings, a soft, thin sweater and undershirt, and a pair of light gloves, as well as a fluffy white scarf. Operating purely on instinct, she hurriedly dresses herself in everything available. Donning the underwear, socks, leggings, and pants, she slips on the boots, to escape the terrible stinging in her feet. Then, the undershirt, light sweater, and overcoat. The gloves, scarf, and cap complete the outfit; for now, she feels snug, and safe from the elements, although a chill has already seeped into her bones.

With physical security established, her focus turns to her present condition. She begins to process her current state of existence.

Who am I? What is this place? When did I get here? I don't understand anything... I don't remember, anything, please... I just want to know why I'm here. Help me understand, someone.

There is naturally no answer waiting for her in the snowfall, nor the mountains, nor the trees; none of them speak to her, for they cannot do so, and she despairs. And yet, her ears pick up a response. Faint, ethereal, and distant, she hears whispers, echoes, prayers in the wind; and they tell her not to fear, for the answer lies waiting beyond the mountains, where the sun sets, and the stars are within reach.

Their words are apocryphal, hollow, and they feed her hope and despair; for now she knows she is not alone.

Those mountains, before seeming cold, aloof, now both beckon and dismay. But this does not matter, for the voices, although hollow, uncertain, dispirited, affirm her that the answer lies beyond the mountains. This was the conclusion she came to herself; that beyond those mountains lies the truth, the truth of who she is, who put her here, and why they did so, and that if she keeps moving, the truth will eventually arrive at her feet, as she arrives at the truth. This, she feels with all her heart.

With her fears assuaged, and her mind stable, she begins looking through the rest of the pack's contents.

The pack now contains only a small hatchet, a mirror, matches, and a notebook and pen.

She pulls out the mirror and examines her reflection: a young girl with long, lavender hair, visage replete with tenderness, melancholy, yet indifference. Her eyes are like twilight, her cheeks rosy, and her heart held bare in her countenance. She feels that she is beautiful, and although the wind whispers its dissent, she pays it no head, for she feels so with her heart, and therein lies her faith. Yet, the cold of the wind still stings her face, so she pulls her hat more snug, her hood, lower, and her scarf, tighter.

Putting the mirror away, she wields the hatchet. Lightweight, but sharp and sturdy. The hatchet and matches, she understands, will be vital for surviving the night; a fire will be a necessity to combat the cold that the darkness will bring. Survival is the prime priority; in order to reach beyond the mountains, she must get there alive and well.

The final item is the journal. Pulling it out, she gingerly flips through the pages, hoping to find information, a hint, help, anything—but the pages are all empty. 

The journal, she understands, is for her to write in. A catalogue of her journey. Who will read it, she knows not.

She replaces the journal and closes up the pack, hanging it on her back.

With this, she takes her first steps through the snow. It crunches softly under her boot, leaving an imprint.

Her journey has begun.