Frozen in Time, the Eternal Tundra

Day after day of blinding white might be enough to drive most men mad. 

I am not a man. Whether or not I am mad... only the eternal white stretching in all directions can answer that. I have traveled this cursed tundra for ages. I have seen empires come and go. I have seen people live and die. Thousands of times. Millions of times.

The air is thin here.

The land is dry here.

Nothing can be born, nothing can grow. Everything can die. I would say that I am the exception to that, but I have no proof that I am alive. So maybe I died.

If I died, this world is one boring afterlife. It is full of people, people just like any I can remember. Going about their lives. They are not dead, they are not like me, ethereal and invisible. They are human.

Either way, I see the world with one eye. Humans have two eyes. Some of the creatures native to the snows immediately north of here have six or even seven eyes. What I see when I look at the world is a perfect circle. Across the middle, there is a blurry line where gray-white turns to blue-white. Below the line is the land, desolate and inhospitable. Above the line is the sky, menacingly bright.

After millennia of boredom passed, boredom itself became a bore. Yes, it was fairly amusing, once upon a time. To wander the tundra aimlessly, thinking about myself and the land, contemplating boredom. But finally these musings wore out their welcome. As millennia passed, I grew tired of seeing civilizations popping up and disappearing. I did not understand what people saw in this wasteland. I overheard once, some words carried on the wind. One human telling another a story about the South.

The Midlands—that is what the humans call the lands north of the northern snows—are war-torn. Humans living in hospitable climates seem unable to remain at peace. Perhaps they seek entertainment just as I do. If so, I cannot fault them. The humans who try to "escape," to flee the Midlands—the humans who try to leave their lands and people behind in order to avoid conflict—are worthy of every known insult in every language.

They come here, to the South, seeking comfort and pleasant days!

They come here, to the South, seeking a better life!

This entertained me for millennia. Eventually, even the folly of humans lost its allure. I tried reaching out with my voice. A hero from a northern kingdom heard me and asked me to talk to him. I told him everything I knew—that I was an eternal spirit and that I could neither die nor leave the tundra to which I was confined. He believed me and swore allegiance to me. I became a god. I gained two ears, two eyes, a body full of senses. I was still me, still intangible, still bound to the tundra. But I had the hero in addition to my timeless self, and he could go anywhere.

Soon thereafter, I gained another follower, and a second pair of eyes opened. My heroes showed me the lands north of my tundra. They showed me forests and clearings, plains and hills, mountains and deserts. They showed me war, that game that made the Midlands so inhospitable to some.

I told them that I wanted to play in this human game, and they obliged me.

I played the game of war well, all the while accumulating more pairs of eyes.

I was proud of myself. I was glad for my heroes, for their victories.

But nothing lasts forever. After some years—an awfully short period, from my point of view—I have grown bored once more. Human games were interesting for a mere fraction of the time I spent contemplating my own existence.

My eyes are numerous. They are omnipresent. There is nothing I can't see. There is nothing that I can't do.

The only thing I can't do is end my endlessness.