Le Français

Everything was white. Blanc, the French say. Funny, that everything should be nothing: blank. All that wasn't blank was a man frosted almost completely over. He probably hadn't cut a hair on his body for several years, considering his long wiry whiskers and mess of hair on top of his head. For how long he had been lying out on the tundra was anyone's guess - if he was dead, he wouldn't begin rotting until spring, still far off in February. If alive, he would be dead soon.1

It seems this man was the latter, as he shivered suddenly. Some of the frost that had begun to gather among his whiskers and around his hands and feet disintegrated. An elbow bent; super-stiffened fingers twitched and reached under the man's seal-skin coat by way of his musky fur-lined collar. When he seemed to reach the bare skin, he pulled back, his rod-straight fingers barely catching a gold chain.2

Eventually, the man pulled it to its limit and with a quick snap of what was left of his once-formidable strength broke the chain. He continued pulling. At the end was nothing more than a small cross. The two tortured hands met around it. The wind howled.3

Tout est devenu noir.4

Mais, maintenant, tout est blanc.