A day and a half come and past. A night spent among the towering skeletons of trees. A night spent in the silent vacuum of winter. A scrawny fox carcass - more fur than food - is all the men have to show for their trouble. 

Not one of the three has spoken since the group turned back. Even the dogs, they notice, don't dare to wimper. The winter has been long. Cold. Deep. Deeper than the snow drifts that now swallow their boots to the brim. The elemental intrusion means little. Their feet are long forgotten. The rise and fall of the earth is all they know. 

Finally they fall no more. The next rise is the last. The sounds of the village drift over the crest of the hill. They forfeit footing for their final flight to the top. Lungs aflame and muscles screaming, the men lift their weary eyes and take in the majesty before them. The valley greets them as it always has. The village below them slips away, voices fade, and for a moment nothing exists. Nothing but the unfeeling spires of the great mountains that line the tiny village. No depth. Only death. 

A raven slices through the frigid air, and lets forth its shrill caw. A sudden gust of wind breaks the still of day. It falters momentarily before diving into the valley.

The man carrying the fox watches as the bird makes its way through the village, winding in and out of buildings, until finally disappearing into the trees. He glances to his left as the aroma of fresh firewood reaches him. A woman scolds her children as they prepare a fire for the feast. To hear her tell it they don't have a brain in their head, nor muscle in their bodies. Slowly a smile makes its way across his face. Her words hide love. 

The feast. It was intended to be the game his party had caught. However, that amounted to the single fox that now swung to and fro from his back with each step he took. The village had expected more than this. He had as well. No matter. They would put something together. Neighbors would provide for one another. More a feast than ever. A communion. 

He makes his way down the slope and through the village past the frozen lakes where friends and family spin and twirl. Again, a smile. Maybe he would skate tomorrow. His first time this year. But first he must go home. Waving, nodding, calling out, he makes his way through the town, past the church, and onto the wooded road to his home by the stream. Through the trees he sees his son playing on the ice. The boys laughter floats gently to his ears. A gentle plume of smoke rises from the chimney. Warmth washes over him. 

High above the birds have retaken the sky, but the ravens will not rest here tonight.