Vigo sat atop the rough stone outcropping and surveyed the southern expanse of the Clan Holdings. He shook his head, a numbing mixture of depression and denial threatening to send him in to a spiral from which he feared he would never return. He should not, could not serve as the Wayfinder the people needed him to be if they were to stand any chance at all of surviving the Southern Trek. Though he could no longer taste the wind or hear the voices of the land, he knew he must find the fortitude of spirit within him to do that which must be done if any of them were to survive the ever-encroaching and endless winter which threatened to end their existence. Despite his misgivings, he arose and began to compile the mental task list of that which must be done before the arduous journey could begin knowing, full well, that, as inadequate a Wayfinder as he might believe himself to be, he was the last and only hope for his people to not perish unremembered and unsung in the icy grip of the night.
This story was written for the Five Sentence Fiction flash fiction photo/word prompt perseverance