When the lonely arctic winds blew into the lands of Cathartica, it cast the Earth into an endless barren winter. The selfish winds were ruthless, leaving all that was life in despair. With no end in sight, Cathartica’s hope died.
In the early birth of another cold winter’s day a boy lies on a bed of fresh fallen snow, surrounded by the sleeping trees. The wind whips his cold face and his blood, dripping from the blade of his knife, freezes in the snow. The last breath he takes: soft and pure. He goes with his spirit and his heart as it seeps from his mortal tomb. The wind carries him through the bare, winter woodland, breezing past the stiff branches of the tired trees, and over the icy lakes. As the wind continues to carry him over the white lands of Cathartica, the endless winter season dies with him, for it could not bear the warmth of his soul, and with his death the world comes to life once more.
The arctic winds, after that day, never returned to Cathartica. The cold: imprisoned by the sacrificed dead boy’s soul; the protector of the wild lands. The body would lay through the seasons, untouched. For years, unmoved and unchanged, as life grows up all around it. The body’s wounds would be healed, but the boy will never return. He will stay forever in his lonely immortal form — keeping the wicked winds away — for the sake of Cathartica.
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