The Ringing

Frosty air clung like a lethal blanket to everything in that cruel way that cold clings; without any indication or warning, silently, deadly. Theon pressed himself farther back against the cold metal , willing himself to melt into the storage container. His breathing was even and slow, balanced at the very tops of his lungs where he could muffle it to an almost perfect silence. Numbing fingertips memorized the texture of his hiding place in an effort to remain steady, and frozen toes curled and uncurled inside soft soled boots, too icy to long for warmth.

His trained ears stalked footsteps which were coming from exactly fifteen feet away to the northwest. They were headed (as he knew they would be) toward him at a steady rate, crunching heavily in the snow and alerting him most readily of their variations. Every second step dragged briefly through the snow with a distinct sound, meaning that one foot was significantly more useful than the other. Perhaps an injury... Or a complete lack of dexterity.... Either way, reactionary movement would prove difficult for whoever was approaching: an advantage, should he need it.

Theon ran his tongue over dry lips, feeling them grow number and colder as the saliva chilled before disappearing. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Now they were a mere nine feet away, baiting him with their proximity. “Close the distance!” they screamed, “You don't need to hide, he won't even see you coming.” With a little jolt of frustration followed quickly by focus, Theon buried the thoughts and remained where he was.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Five feet away. With practised silence, Theon raised his hand to the leather belt at his waist and flawlessly slipped the Bowie knife from its sheath. The handle fit itself naturally into the crease of his palm, shifting perfectly as he flexed his grip. His gloves left the fingers bare, which allowed the cold to bite at them, but provided him with the beautifully firm hold and familiarity that he wanted with his knife. A heavy breath filled his lungs in anticipation. Not long now.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Three feet. Crunch. Crunch. One foot. Crunch. Show time.

A man, dressed in a navy blue uniform complete with a bullet-proof vest, heavy steel-tipped boots, and headgear, appeared in the tiny opening between two storage containers. He didn't so much as glance at the shadowy sliver of space as his route led him past, yet maybe he should have. For, harboured in the claustrophobic darkness, barely breathing, barely living, was a variable grim reaper.

The moment the man had walked past and turned his back to the hiding space, Theon moved. Like quicksilver, he was behind him with one hand clamped down on the man's mouth, and other at his throat. Burning breath blast against his exposed fingers as the man tried to scream... or to warn his comrades. Perhaps to beg. Either way his voice was nothing but inaudible muffles against Theon's iron hold.

The Bowie knife shifted in his hand as he lined it up with the man's arteries. While the blade inched closer to delicate, vulnerable skin, something in Theon's gut wrenched suddenly. A smiling face sprung up behind his eyes, laughter and senseless speech echoed in his ears, some familiar scent was suffocating him. It all came crashing down like an ultrasonic ringing in his head. He moved his eyes fanatically to look at the man caught in his arms and saw a sparkling line running slowly from beneath the helmet. The warm air on his other hand was moving in little unsteady puffs now, and the sound was a soft murmur; quiet, humble. The knife shifted again, nearly falling through his perfect grip.

As the trail of quickly freezing tears rolled down the man's face, the ringing intensified, beating Theon's mind cruelly until he wanted to scream out in pain. The laughing. The talking. The ringing. The faces of people he knew. The memories of places he'd been. The ringing. The smiling. The crying. The ringing. The strangers he'd met. The things that he'd done. The ringing. The pity. The ringing. The ringing. The ringing.

Silence.

Theon found himself staring at the man. Dead. Sprawled in the snow, red pooling beside him. The Bowie knife was still in his hands, dripping mutely with blood.

He paused. Looked down at his handiwork. Memorized the man's face; not crying, but grey and lifeless. Took a deep breath of cold air. And wiped the blood off on his pant leg.