The light of a newborn sun bathed him, embracing his broken frame like a long-lost child in his mother's arms.
He had never realized how much he craved that warmth, that golden, weightless caress, until he woke with the rays burning softly against his closed eyelids.
He lay upon a sea of emerald grass, the blades cool and supple beneath him.
Where was he?
His mind felt heavy, draped in a thick, drowsy veil that made every movement feel like treading through honey. He stared up at the sky, a vast, ethereal blue so perfect it felt painful to look upon.
There was no beauty in it for him, only a terrible, aching confusion.
The memories came back in rhythmic stabs each taking the breath from him and leaving a weight in his chest. He remembered the thunder of hooves. He remembered the glint of the lance-point and the crushing, mountainous force that had unmade the world. He remembered the mud, the blood, and death, oh old, familiar death.
