The sunlight beyond my closed eyelids paints the inside of my eyes red. Which day now? ... is it hours or days ... my horse finds his own meandering way, I cannot help him or guide him. The loose stones click against his hooves. We are climbing, swaying in the saddle, weaker than a newborn, slumped over my belly. Where the crow and the girl and the dunlander are I have no knowledge. Mayhap he can follow my trail ... I am too enfeebled to care.
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the burt man
