An icy plain beneath clouded sky, Submission lies fenceless and exposed. There’s nowhere to run, except into the Palace of Grief.
Submissioners ride on ice horses, elephants, and camels.
They cross the plains searching, as they have been asked to seek.
The plains are empty.
In summer, they grow wheat, but it remains cold.
They thresh and grind the grains to make flour.
They knead bread loaves and bake them in great ovens.
The bakeries of Submission are renowned. Travelers come to eat Submission bread. At night, Submissioners toss and turn together in longhouses. They wake reluctantly at dawn. Mice skitter across the wood floors. Rats crawl into the bakeries. The rodents grown bolder with each passing year. There are no cats. The Submissioners worship rats and feed them bits of warm bread. The equines eat grain. They have ice manes, ice trunks, and ice humps. The passing plain can be seen through their transparent necks. Beneath their ice skin their red and blue veins throb. Their ice hearts beat and sound like falling, cracking shards.
Within Submission lies the ice palace Grief, a stately place in a frozen sphere which never melts. The frost lies thick upon its sides. Grief has been carved into many rooms where people stay by themselves despite the cold. They look at the cold mirages in the blue ice walls.
"They have a kind of beauty," says Miss Emeline Traveler.
In Grief, everyone wears insulated coats, hats, and puffy gloves. They return to the palace again and again making reservations far in advance.
"We stayed overnight, then for a few days, then a week, then weeks at a time," says Miss Doe Friend. "I began to fear we would not leave. Emeline was peering into the walls so."
"I thought I had lost her," she confides, speaking a rare word of concern for her friend. "But then she came to and we left as usual."
The staff of Grief have bodies of ice, frozen themselves. They light the candles in the hallways. Some are only spirit and haunt the bed chambers.
"A very lovely ice wine is served," says Miss Emeline. "Many guests stay intoxicated to stay warm."
The bakeries of Submission are renowned. Travelers come to eat Submission bread. At night, Submissioners toss and turn together in longhouses. They wake reluctantly at dawn. Mice skitter across the wood floors. Rats crawl into the bakeries. The rodents grown bolder with each passing year. There are no cats. The Submissioners worship rats and feed them bits of warm bread. The equines eat grain. They have ice manes, ice trunks, and ice humps. The passing plain can be seen through their transparent necks. Beneath their ice skin their red and blue veins throb. Their ice hearts beat and sound like falling, cracking shards.
Within Submission lies the ice palace Grief, a stately place in a frozen sphere which never melts. The frost lies thick upon its sides. Grief has been carved into many rooms where people stay by themselves despite the cold. They look at the cold mirages in the blue ice walls.
"They have a kind of beauty," says Miss Emeline Traveler.
In Grief, everyone wears insulated coats, hats, and puffy gloves. They return to the palace again and again making reservations far in advance.
"We stayed overnight, then for a few days, then a week, then weeks at a time," says Miss Doe Friend. "I began to fear we would not leave. Emeline was peering into the walls so."
"I thought I had lost her," she confides, speaking a rare word of concern for her friend. "But then she came to and we left as usual."
The staff of Grief have bodies of ice, frozen themselves. They light the candles in the hallways. Some are only spirit and haunt the bed chambers.
"A very lovely ice wine is served," says Miss Emeline. "Many guests stay intoxicated to stay warm."
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