No matter which direction Alpheo turned, the world offered no variation, an endless, echoing loop of green and gray. The air was thick, tasting of stagnant water and old moss, locked in a stillness so absolute it felt like a long held breath. They weaved through the skeletal fingers of trees that seemed to grow from the silence itself.
Perhaps he was descending into madness, or perhaps his cold cynicism was simply no match for the desperate, hollow ache to see Egil again, even if this version of him was a shallow lie woven by a dying mind.
His friend walked with the easy, rolling gait of a man who knew exactly where the path led, just as he had in life.
It felt like an affront to the natural order. It wasn't right for Egil to have died, not so soon, and certainly not in that way.
There were supposed to be years of bickering over maps and sharing wine in the quiet hours after victory or after a life spent at war.
