Bearclaw Valley gardenia and king protea

Lying down here, under the sun, is almost painful. He knows there is work to be done. He knows that he is never completely safe. In my head, everything is so tangled. I am such a damaged thing.
The knots in his head and in his throat tug at him, but he doesn't move. He lets the quiet and cool breeze run its long strokes through his hair. The sound of woodland animals, the dampness on his toes, Evien, who smelled like herbs and something else unnameable. He can forget that he is himself.
He scoffs, but takes a closer at the scrape on his cheek. Teach me how to make some poultices one day, Kastner.
The question prematurely aged Taylor Fields. He lets it marinate in silence before saying: I'm happy. He pronounced happy very carefully, as if it were a newly found complicated chemical concoction. Are you?