The North Wind spoke to him. Guiding him with whispers, it told him of the world around him. Of the trees that he walked past, of every shape and sigh of the leaves and the edges of the bark, then of the rocks when the bushes could no longer survive this far north and still he walked and the Wind spoke. Not that he needed it to anymore, not here. Where the ground was layer upon layer of ice and covered with even more snow. He could feel it, with each step he took, the snow stretching as it went on for miles beyond him, to the frozen waters. He could feel the cold of the water freezing between the chunks of ice as he stepped over the edges and onto the next.
Trusting the Wind to keep him steady, as its voice whispered to him of the bear not too far away, that he could faintly hear paddling in the water. As the Wind carried a single snowflake from a far off mountain, as it sang the creaking of a pillar of ice, his steps guided him to a new place he hadn't been to yet in all his exploring.
It was strange, this place, so unlike what should be found this far, from where humans should be able to go. Yet here someone else was. He knew they were here, the Wind told him so. He could hear them now, he was close. He continued to move, hiding in the trees that should not be, yet are. Not looking beyond his feet, not yet. In the shadow of the last tree he trailed his fingers over his frost that covered the bark, and let the Wind tell him of what was before him. Two snowy mountains, afar off. He let his senses spread and he felt them far away, just at the edge. Right before you, a field of snow, stretching to the doors. As the Wind told him everything about what it touched, he raised his head, even knowing it wasn't necessary and looked. What he saw made him wonder. Icicles hanging from where the roof edges must be, and the snow that hung, resting on the roof tops. Indents in the snow, shaped like massive footprints. It was true then, what the Wind had said, someone had built a home. Here, in the cold that nobody but him would brave, that he thought nobody could brave.
Oh how he wanted to be in there! To hear them, to know it, to see it, but he couldn't. He still tried. Stretching his senses but there was nothing he could see under the floating snow that graced the home. No there was nothing but warmth there. It frustrated him to no end, to not have what he wanted so badly, sitting there just out of his reach. He would never be invited in, so he tried to force his way in. New walls were made to keep him out. If he really wanted to, he could make a storm so strong it would bury the walls in snow all the way to the roof. During the panic, surely he could slip inside then. He may even be able to frost the entire interior before they could find and stop him, if he hid really well. But then what of the people that must surely live inside? How would they survive if he put out every flame? Make every surface cold and blocked out the light of the arctic sun to stop it all from melting? No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't see it without destroying that which he wanted to feel.
He was frost and snow and ice after all, and this home was warmth. No, he could only feel where his element was and see what his Wind told him from its touch. The one he named Phil, would never let him run loose inside to run his fingers over every surface. To stand in their midst, feel all the shapes from the wind. They were a piece of wonder, of summer heat, of wood and new things, and he was cold.
They would never let him in.
He would never be able to look inside or feel warmth because he was cold and...
He was blind.