“Why are you a healer?” I ask Nestorion one afternoon as he treats the wound on my abdomen with the given grace and learned skill to be expected from the elves. He raises his gaze to meet mine, staying silent until he is through with his work.
There were fell voices on the air. Whispers that I could make no sense of. The wind was cold and biting against my skin. It howled and moaned in my ears, but still, the whispers were tangible. My feet cannot move through the snow. Is it snow? Is it something else? I cannot move.