Bearclaw Valley however dangerous this may be

Still damp from the rain, he pushes the wet hair from his brow, petrichor in his mouth. Merrick calls for him, and he arrives. The boy-king stands in the centre of a blue-dappled clearing wearing a sunlight halo, and looking at him, Taylor can believe in deities. A scene straight out of an ancient Welsh grave. Wild hair, drops of blood, garish flowers, light piercing through thick clouds.
Another man, this one a stranger, is already there. He appraises him with an up-and-down of those blue eyes. His cool gray hair glints in the sun like metal.
He shivers, out of both anticipation and the air on his sodden clothes. Squinting against the day, petals stuck in the fur on his legs, he sits wordlessly, acutely aware of his heartbeat in the quiet.