Sun

It was cold, the sun was out yet he was cold with a wind that came soundlessly from behind him. 

He was sitting at the head of the table. One endless table which seemed to stretch so far away that it disappeared amongst the trees lined bare to the darkening hills. There were no chairs, just his. Nothing more.

He stood up and turned slowly, narrowing his eyes and hunching against the growing breeze, and there was nothing. The sky was bare and colourless, yet the sun waned as if hidden in cloud. 

It was so cold. He pulled his arms in tight and held himself and the pain came fierce and loud so that he threw his arms wide and blood spattered the ground as the wind grew and howled.

The sun was going, the blood on the ground black. The sun was gone, and everything was black. And the cold became everything. Became nothing.