Larson squeaked as another wave of cold bit his exposed skin.
Granted, it wasn't much. Larson had found as many scraps of cloth as he could, paired with his poor, faded teal sweater. The carefully sewn strings were frayed by now, and the clothes did nothing to keep his feet warm from the cold.
Large snowflakes - as large as his palms - drifted down from the dreary gray sky. Larson trudged through the falling flakes as well as he could, sneezing when he felt the chills race up his throat. The wind blew into his face, nipping at his bright red nose, and hot, warm breath billowed into puffy vapor in front of his face.
His fingers were numb against the small pack of belongings he had; the few he could actually call his: his hook, a small cube of tinfoil, and a small silver bead.
Years. It had been years since Larson ever considered moving. Yet, there he was, in the middle of nowhere, a snowy nightmare, looking for home.
Wherever 'home' was.
He sneezed again, crying out when he accidentally breathed in too much of the frigid air, and coughing it all out again, his lungs beginning to ache. More snow whipped past him, hitting him like small, frigid feathers, and melting on his clothes, getting them wet. He hissed as the wet turquoise sweater touched his side, and a bolt of pain rushed through him.
He blinked the snow and wind out of his eyes, shaking his ever-reddening head furiously. He had to keep on going!
He continued, and as the snow slowly piled up, so too did his weariness. His muscles ached - at least that generated a bit of heat - and his teeth chattered. He couldn't feel his lips, his nose, his arms, his toes, his fingers; nothing.
Nothing at all.
He was acutely aware that he had stumbled, and was lying face-first in the snow, as more piled on top of him. He tried his best to curl into a ball, to conserve as much heat as possible before it inevitably all slipped away from him. His heart pounded, his face numb, his expression (he assumed) contorted into a resigned look of twisted acceptance.
He was going to die here. In the cold. No one to help him, and no one to remember him.
And the only person that did, probably lived so far away that Larson wouldn't even get close.
He sighed weakly, and closed his eyes.
...
The first thing Larson felt was warmth. Unbearable, painful warmth that blossomed throughout his frigid body.
He cried out in pain, unable to move, and only able to accept the incoming heat with whimpers and wails. Slowly, the feeling of pain receded from his hands, and he clenched them, to distract himself from the terrible, wonderful feeling expanding from his core.
His hands found his poor old sweater, and he grabbed it tightly, trying not to cry as he felt the comforting heat seep through his weakened body like wildfire. It was divine, a dream come true...
A miracle.
The first thing that Larson realized was that a human found him. No borrower could ever be out in that weather. No one could be out in that weather, save for a human, with their thick, woolen clothing.
Larson was hesitant to relax after that. He still couldn't see, which was a problem on its own, but as warmth awakened his senses, his eyes slowly cracked open, feeling weak from the receding bite of the cold. He glanced around, taking it all in.
It was a normal human home, he supposed. Nothing fancy or strange stood out to him. Not like his... previous... home.
Chains cages pain crying -
