Laughter always seemed to be the most inappropriate sound next to Pileon. His immortality, this eternal, indestructible fortress, was bizarrely combined with the ordinariness of your life, with its fragility and inevitable end. Your friendship seemed to defy the very nature of things.

You were protecting each other. He, with his strength, which seemed to draw energy from the very bowels of the earth, and you, with your loyalty, your ability to understand his silent language, his ancient, full of secrets soul.

But everything changed that day. The snow, pure and innocent, turned a hideous bloody hue. Pileon was lying on top of him, his seemingly eternal armor pierced. Blood, as red as that of a mortal man, slowly spread across the white canvas. His face, usually calm and unperturbed, was distorted by unbearable pain.

—« A...» — he whispered, the voice that had sounded like thunder for centuries turning into a hoarse whisper. His hand, huge and strong, was weakly reaching out to you. He was trying to reach out, to feel your body, your warmth for the last time.