Silver Moraine Sitting here in the afternoon,

@Ilse @Yikaas <3

The next day his eyes open, accompanied by the furnace blast of a fever. Anselm straddled the world of fretful sleep and wakeful terror, miserable in both. 

He’d come to enough to know a man was tending to him? Amadeo? Not Amadeo? Each time he woke he had to remember anew; where was he, who was he with, what had happened?

His mind was a fuzzy recollection of half-stored thoughts — like letters haphazardly stored in too thin mail slots. What he did remember didn’t fit — and what he didn’t remember loomed like a great shadow just out of his peripheral, burgeoning and pregnant with threat. 

Presently, Anselm brought his head to his belly, his spine curved in the helpless pose of an infant. Pain and suffering was his lot now, and he waded this gelid sea at a dying man’s pace. All he could think was his tongue felt like the shriveled edge of a parched leaf.