Traveler

 Crunch… Crunch… Crunch… 

The sounds of your footfalls displacing the snow underneath you ring out loudly through the darkening forest, piercing through the meticulously crafted symphony of nature's orchestra. Alone, aside for the ever-present chill of the winter breeze gnashing at you like a rabid animal. It’s tendrils prowling across every inch of your coverings, desperately searching for any opening, any weakness for it to claw and crawl its way into, to envelop you in its icy embrace. A shudder shakes throughout your body as you tighten the strap of your rations. 

Crunch… Crunch… cRACK…

Your eyes stare into the gloom in front of you, raising your hand to shield against the daggers of wind slashing at your cheeks you are barely able to make out that in front of you looms the dark silhouette of another man. The moonlight's reflection off the snow sends phantoms dancing through the dim light, obscuring his features, obscuring his intentions. Your hand darts into the inner lining of your overcoat, your fingers wrap themselves around the hilt of Cooper's old hunting blade, you grip it as strongly as your numb fingers will allow, despite the throbbing pain it shoots through your hand. Your pulse quickens, your nerve endings scream with anticipation as your body prepares itself for a possible confrontation. Your mind races to the few supplies you have in your bag, those recovered from the remnants of the outpost you once called home, before you were forced to flee into this forsaken storm. That’s when you catch it, your first clear glimpse at the man shaped shadow standing between you and whatever lay at the edge of the woods. Your eyes lock, and it is in this moment that you realize that what stands in front of you is nothing more than a mirror image of yourself. 

The eyes which stared back from sunken sockets amidst a lifeless expression were more at home in an abused animal than a man. Yet they were not the vicious eyes of the scavengers you had encountered before, no, these were the forlorn eyes of a compatriot of loss, someone acquainted with its strangulating grasp. For a moment your memory darted back to the faces of those you had left behind, the grip of your hand loosening momentarily… His eyes exhibited the same darting, frantic scanning of your surroundings, expecting the next shadow darting across your vision to be more than just a shadow. The same tired droop to his eyelids which begged for a reprieve amid a merciless world.

Oh, you poor fool. You are me, and I you.