The whiter the snow, the redder the blood. Or so it appears that way. Escpecially when there’s a dagger lodged in your leg and a puddle of crimson framing your wound like a work of art. Well, yeh, that just so happens to have happened to me.

It doesn’t help that the tree I’m leant against has frost melting onto my tactical gear and freezing up my entire body. And, someone’s nicked one of my boots, so I’m pretty sure my foot’s gonna fall off within the next few seconds. Overall, things are going great.

When I make a move to pull out the dagger, I feel it frozen in place. Great. At least I won’t die of blooodloss. I close my eyes, the snow settling on my eyelashes like some mosquitos ready to take advantage of my weakened state.

I don’t even open my eyes when I hear footsteps. Normally the crunching would be rather therapeutic, now it almost drags on, like a mocking nursery rhyme or some alarm that’s too far away to turn off. I squint my eyes open slightly. A blue scarf. Delightful. At least the enemy will let me die a bit quicker than if the cold would take me.

I lift a weak hand in greeting, “Afternoon.” I can’t help the dry humour that passes my lips.

The enemy raises his head and its his eyes that catch my attention. A piercing blue, bloody terrifying, to say the least. He glares at me and I shrink back slightly.

“Anyone tell ya that you have lovely eyes?” I mutter sacrcastocally, “Really brings out that hideously coloured scarf.”

The man suddenly lunges for me and grabs my chin, yanking my head up to face him. Looking over me, he grunts in acknowledgment, then speaks, his voice gruff, that disgusting Northern accent slurring his words, “Never thought I’d see the day of a Southerner pleading for help.”

I pull my head back.

“I never pleaded an—“

“You were about to.”

Damn him. I avert my eyes as my hands grip subconsciously at the snow beneath me. This guy’s good. Perceptive, durable, invulnerable. Shame he’s northern.

“You’re just talking to me because you’re too much of a coward to kill me now.” I retort, shuffling into a more comfortable position. A wince escaped me and I mentally curse myself for allowing that to slip.

The man’s eyes narrow, “I am not a coward. I am brave enough to stand for any fight, and I am skilled enough to kill any soldier. And I am,” very full of myself, “not going to hold back from killing another piece of scum.”

“Oh, what’s the speech now?” I say, no longer intimidated, more like amused. I put on an exaggerated northern accent, “You are polluting our world with your very existence. We will get rid of you and the world will be pure again.” The man opens his mouth to speak but I cut him off, speaking in my accent again, “Well, hate to break it to you, love, but if you killed everyone that is Southern, then your Northeners will have to move to the south. So, technically, you would be southerners, too.”

“You think you’re so clever.” In a split second, the man’s hand wraps around the hilt of the dagger embedded in my thigh. Then, he rips it out. I yell in pain, tensing up, my hands flying to the wound.

“F*ck…” I curse, gritting my teeth against the pain, “Did you really have to do that?”

“Be grateful I’m not killing you now.”

I roll my eyes, “How very noble of you.” A pause. “So, do people from up north have names? Or do they just not talk to each other?”

The enemy huffs. It almost sounds like… laughter? “Reeve.”

“Atlas.” I reluctantly mutter.

Reeve smirks and turns on his heel, “Well, goodbye, Atlas.”

“Gonna leave me here?”

“Better than killing you.”

“Oh, I’m not sure it is.”

But, there isn’t a response, Reeve just chuckles to himself and walks off, leaving me slumped against a tree, in the bitter cold, pressing a hand to my wound. Northeners…