As it always does, the wind asked the pine trees to perform their dance. It was the same lazy, swaying dance they always do, but tonight’s sent powdered snow back into the air, wildly glittering in the moonlight.

Despite the sparkling powder being responsible for the hateful chill that gnawed at his bones, Naekit still loved to watch it swirl in the breeze. He had such an admiration of snow. The way it softly crunched under his bare little feet. The way it quieted the air so that all he could hear was that soft crunch. The snow made the world feel as small as he was, but he would never admit that’s why he liked it.

The man who clothed and named him was mysterious and long lived, and Naekit assumed that to be the latter, one must be the former. And so Naekit never told the world he liked the snow because it made him feel bigger.

The breeze died down and the cold stopped its gnawing for a moment. His fingers warmed under his ragged pink cloak. Naekit couldn’t help but think of times when the cloak was less ragged and more red. Back when he first met the man who clothed and named him. It was many years ago in the snowless lands, where the red sun yelled hot and the sandy yellow ground yelled back. The Dusted, it was called. 

The man was tall and lean, and wore a long red cloak that billowed even when the air was still. He wore a hat to keep the sun out of his eyes, though it could have just been one eye kept out of the sun. Naekit never saw the man’s face, because where it would be was a metal mask with a single slit across it. Even when he was serious, the mask made him look like he was always smiling.

On the man’s belt was a knife longer than Naekit was at the time. If Naekit ever got to see it again, it would probably still be longer than him. He only ever saw the man use it that first time they met, under a lone dry tree on a hill, when he cut a small piece of his crimson cloak.

“You’re Naekit, wear this and keep your dignity!” the man said with a grin you could only hear behind the smiling mask he wore. Naekit never forgot those words, or the long blue fingers that handed him the strip of cloth, and the dignity that he wore ever since. It had been long enough since then that Naekit’s shins were showing under the cloak that used to catch on the dusty ground. The cold never stopped gnawing at his toes, but now his cloak; his dignity; the first gift he was ever given, wouldn’t get so tattered. It wasn’t at all likely that they would meet again, but Naekit hoped that one day he could thank the man who named him, for among many other things, naming him.