Freezing sewage coursed down the center of the street. Dark, looming, forbidding houses carved from stone and great, unyielding slabs of wood hemmed him in. A light dusting of dirty snow blanketed everything, staining everything with a greasy black residue. Figures curled in ragged blankets huddled in corners along the street, but nothing moved. The moon glared down, turning the street into a patchwork of areas where no detail could be hidden interspersed with black, impenetrable shadows where anything could lurk. He sprinted drunkenly, stumblingly through the biting cold. Faint sounds of life echoed occasionally from elsewhere in the city, but here there was only emptiness. His breath billowed in great icy clouds in front of him, only to vanish into the night; each breath out robbing him of warmth, each breath in filling him with ice.

He thought but never mind what he thought. For a moment he had been filled with a tiny spark of hope more the fool, he. Now there was only the shuddering breaths and the need to run, to escape. Still, in his mind he could see the tiny light of the flame that had summoned him, given him the courage to break free. The windows were dark now, barred against him with great wooden shutters latched on the inside. Outside, the ragged bundles curled in corners watched him dispassionately. He felt the eyes all around; cold, uninterested. His panic and desperation was merely something to fill the field of their vision there was no curiosity, no empathy. He picked up the speed, scurrying gracelessly past one closed door, then another.

As he scrambled, his foot caught on a traitorous cobblestone, and he crashed to the ground. Cold stone met him, chewing his flesh, piercing his bones. Paused for a moment, his eyes closed as he lay in the filth, allowing the cold to seep into his body. He struggled to breathe, but even his own lungs betrayed him, refusing to take in any more of the icy air than they could avoid. Somehow, he gathered the strength to push himself up to his knees. He paused a moment, head hanging low. His chest screamed in protest at being filled with the arctic air that seared him with each breath.

The sound of a horses hooves rang on the stone ahead of him. His head snapped to attention, his gaze desperate to pierce the shadows, to see beyond the walls that enclosed him. His breath froze; the only sound was the thundering of his heart in his ears. Was he discovered? Had they come to take him back? To take from him even this miserable, frozen, lonely freedom? Petrified, his eyes darted about searching for the source of the sound, an unoccupied shadow where he could conceal himself, a source of help. But there was nothing but barren snow and the harsh spotlight of the moon in reach. The leaden beats of the horses hooves grew closer. His legs trembled to run, but he could not move. Sullenly, they collapsed beneath him, spilling him back to the street. His breath began to scrape out in pitiable whimpers. If they found him, he would not be able to escape again.