Chap­ter XII begins with a haunt­ing still­ness that blan­kets the icy Mar­t­ian land­scape. Gul­liv­er, strand­ed in this frozen ter­rain, strug­gles to sur­vive the bit­ing cold by build­ing a mod­est fire, unaware that his small flame will awak­en more than just warmth. Near­by, encased in a sheet of ancient ice, rests a tow­er­ing fig­ure clad in regal grey, a cir­clet of gold bear­ing strange mark­ings fixed around his head. Though motion­less, the fig­ure evokes a pres­ence of immense dig­ni­ty, as if roy­al author­i­ty had been paused mid-reign. Gul­liv­er, both afraid and intrigued, draws clos­er, won­der­ing what fate could have sealed such a being in ice. As the fire grows, so too does the ten­sion, until the frozen shell cracks, unleash­ing an unex­pect­ed con­fronta­tion. Instinc­tive­ly, Gul­liv­er bat­tles the icy fig­ure, only to find him­self wrestling not a ghost, but a thaw­ing corpse—a rel­ic of anoth­er time.

The encounter with the ancient body leaves Gul­liv­er shak­en yet fas­ci­nat­ed. What his­to­ry might this frozen noble have wit­nessed? What sto­ries had been lost with his voice? These ques­tions linger as dawn breaks over the des­o­late plateau. Hunger soon reclaims Gulliver’s focus, dri­ving him to search the area for sus­te­nance or a path for­ward. To his sur­prise, an elder­ly Mar­t­ian emerges, col­lect­ing shin­ing stones among the icy rub­ble. Ini­tial­ly fright­ened, the man assumes Gul­liv­er to be a spir­it, pale and out of place in this remote waste­land. Their meet­ing is cau­tious but turns cor­dial after Gul­liv­er proves, through laugh­ter and hunger, that he is very much alive and in need of help. The old man, hard­ened by soli­tude, shares his sim­ple provisions—dried root cakes and min­er­al water—with sur­pris­ing gen­eros­i­ty.

Con­ver­sa­tion reveals the woodsman’s strange occu­pa­tion: he gath­ers gems flushed out from the ice cliffs by the melt­ing process, rem­nants of ancient dis­as­ters that buried nobles and priests long ago. Gul­liv­er is both awed and unnerved by the thought that so many pow­er­ful beings lie entombed beneath his feet, their trea­sures now scav­enged by wan­der­ers. Yet, even in the face of poten­tial rich­es, Gul­liv­er’s thoughts return to his goal—reaching the Mar­t­ian cap­i­tal and com­plet­ing his mis­sion. He offers his share of gem­stones as pay­ment for safe pas­sage and infor­ma­tion. The old man, moved more by pur­pose than by wealth, agrees to lead him through an ancient pas­sage­way. The route, sel­dom trav­eled, is said to cut through the heart of the glacier—a nar­row trail filled with frozen rem­nants of Mar­t­ian his­to­ry.

Their jour­ney through the icy fis­sure is grim and awe-inspir­ing. Tow­er­ing walls of frost encase rows of long-dead fig­ures, some noble, oth­ers mon­strous, each one pre­served in eter­nal silence. Their faces, still con­tort­ed with emo­tion, sug­gest moments of des­per­a­tion or rit­u­al long for­got­ten. The cold bites deep­er as the trail winds fur­ther, light dwin­dling with each step. Gul­liv­er feels both hon­ored and haunt­ed to walk among such relics. These Mar­tians, once vibrant with ambi­tion or faith, now stand frozen as silent wit­ness­es to a world that moved on with­out them. It is a reminder of the fragili­ty of both time and pow­er, and how even empires are sub­ject to nature’s qui­et claim.

The final stretch brings a faint glow, a soft gold­en hue that sig­nals the end of the tun­nel. Both trav­el­ers press for­ward, hearts lift­ed by the promise of sun­light and warmth. Emerg­ing into a rocky val­ley fringed by firs and red moss, Gul­liv­er inhales deeply, savor­ing the return of life’s sim­ple plea­sures. Behind him, the ice groans soft­ly, as if whis­per­ing farewells from its eter­nal guardians. Ahead lies uncer­tain­ty, but also pur­pose. The protagonist’s resolve is sharp­ened, tem­pered by what he has seen. He now knows that his jour­ney is more than personal—it is part of a sto­ry that began long before his arrival. Mars, in all its won­der and dan­ger, has accept­ed him as a fleet­ing guest, and he intends to leave a mark worth remem­ber­ing.