Judas
It was a cursed day, so cold that your clothes stuck to your skin with every step, your nostrils were glued together with every breath and your heart cried out in fear of frost, unable to hide away even in the deepest part of your chest. The bodies of dead seagulls, victims of the coldest winter that the Greek settlers could remember, lay on the ground, ready for the taking by any starved man or beast. The sea was, for once, silent and still, draped in heavy ice, powerless before a crueler mistress.
Trudging his feet through the snow, grateful for his thick, fur coat, yet still cursing his coming to this side of the world, Judas made his way towards the tavern. Every now and then he spared a glance eastwards, towards the rising sun that glinted blindingly on the white ice of the Black Sea, burning the sight, but radiating no heat.
How mad he had been to leave Jerusalem! Or how foolish not to have gone elsewhere, in gentler places, with soft winters and cool summers. Why these Greek sho
TheOtherSarshi
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