The Peace of Perspective
How often did he hate it when the wind came in unceasing torrents, beating against his withering chest? There did not need to be an answer, or rather, there was no need to go beyond the question, for the answer was always the same: every time. It was like being pummeled relentlessly, but against an enemy too large to receive a return blow. And it took what little sanity winter left him with and turned it raw. But he could not hide from it, could not cower. This was winter, and even at its end, the ever forming, ever blowing storm could not prevent him from doing his duty of winding about the depths of weather—not when its alternative was despair. And yet, he woke each morning to the galing winds, to the howl that had yet to cease in the months since they had first began, and to the pit of anger in his belly. It d...