It’s cold where he walks; the kind of cold that freezes thoughts and steals breath and dreams. The sky is clear and blue, but there is no warmth in it. The sun doesn’t rise through the sky, but rests beneath it, a match head beneath a sapphire. At the top of the world, the sun rests on mountains and never crests the heavens.

The man’s head is down. He knows the sun will not set for 17 days, it will circle the horizon and make his shadow surround him.

He shambles beneath frozen layers of cloth and fur. Sapphire eyes reflect the sky and shine against the glare. He stares down at a compass in his hand, an ice encrusted thumb wipes frost from its crystal face. Breath escapes in a plume, only to disappear into the froze blue.

North. Always North. The red needle points to an ‘N’ and his footsteps crunch through fresh snow. The plain ahead is flat and untouched, and the path behind is marked only by his footsteps. Or rather, he knows it would be. He has never looked behind. Always forward. Always upward and onward. Always North.

He listens to his feet in the snow – that cornstarch sound sets his teeth on edge. It always has. It resonates through his molars like fingernails on a blackboard.

He’s been walking for so long that he forgets where he came from or where he’s going. All he has is direction… and he has made that direction a purpose. Something is waiting for him, and he will find it eventually. He knows that. Why else would he have a compass and no watch?

He walks. His molars ache. Somewhere far away, or deep within, massive sheets of ice groan and shift.

He doesn’t feel the breeze against his frozen skin. He doesn’t see the white snow drift over the white snow. He doesn’t know that he has made no impression that cannot be filled. He walks his path, traces his covered footsteps with cornstarch squeals and resonant teeth.

Always north. Always forward. Upwards and onwards. Something is waiting.