The world darkened and the trees became silver silhouettes in the snow. There was nothing, save a single blue flame in the middle of the field; no people were there, no animals. Nothing but the remnants of long-dead trees and snow was present.
‘You know of his suffering,’ a voice spoke from the world, the very earth beneath him, ‘yet you continue to cause him pain?
‘You know why he did what he did; for indeed you have been in a similar position, have you not? Starved, weak, hunted...
‘First your family died: one by one they fell to some hidden sickness. Then your friends died. Then came the day on which you too died.’
There was a silence.
‘Do you not remember, Dran?’
Approaching the flame, he realised at once that he did not feel the cold. He knew it was cold, for in some hidden memory of the past he remembered this place; he remembered its trees and blank snow, he remembered its cold and its rough winds. He felt nothing; not his body, not his presence, not his thoughts.
‘You do remember,’ the voice stated.
The sky turned light, then dark, then light, then dark again; days and nights passed, he lingered, understanding took him... he rose from his bed.
‘Hrodric,’ he said at once, brushing his right hand over his face.
‘You heard me,’ the man with long, almost unnaturally black hair noted, ‘I expected as much.’
‘You have returned,’ he commented, standing now, ‘I trust you have brought good news... indeed you have been away for a time; a man of your skill, I expect, would gather several scores: how many?’
‘Several scores,’ Hrodric replied, ‘and I have a tale: a tale to tell. It has struck you, I expect, that Greyleaf is not present.’
‘I know,’ he noted, ‘I know... a kindness at last.’
