The cold was so much worse than he thought it would be. The wind cutting through his cloak and biting his skin like a thousand arrows. Carefully, methodically, Billy Bob moved through the unfamiliar fields, pulling what he could from the frozen earth. It was a sparse harvest, the deep and sudden cold had already damaged much of the crop, but he salvaged everything he could.

There were no baskets, bags, or carts. Just his own two hands, raw and stiff from the cold, and his drive to gather everything he could save. Having arrived long after the sun had departed, he trudged through the biting wind and the oppressive darkness.

Twelve trips, he counted. Twelve trips back and forth with armfuls of root vegetables, meager grains, and simple hemp, painstakingly recovered even as it felt like his hands could grip no more. His body ached against the cold, but his purpose and experience drove him to take the next step, bringing the harvest back to his people.

As Billy Bob finally returned what he deemed the last of the harvest he felt he could save, his hands long past shivering. He moved to the warmth of the fire, and sank into an open chair, exhaustion settling into his bones. “Well done,” Gilbert called out, clapping Billy Bob on the back. “That’s some fine work. We’ll be able to use this immediately!”

Billy Bob didn’t reply, too tired to even respond. His hands, raw and stiff, still clutched the edge of his cloak as he stared into the flames. ‘I just want to rest’ he thought to himself.

The quartermaster’s cheer faded into the wind, but all Billy Bob could hear was the crackling of the fire, the warmth of it, the silence after the storm of work.