Qeya River there will come a ruler whose brow is laid in thorn

she traces the river's winding path south again, thirst heavy in the back of her throat but bank too steep to make a tactful approach to the water's edge. a chunk of ice - an iceberg in miniature - is carried past her, formidable to make accidentally falling in a real threat. besides the ice, the water is fridgid, and the woman has all too vivid memories of another frozen creek many months ago. Screech is dead now, and lacking anyone else who might pull her out, she won't risk a fall. 

instead, she pulls back from the edge and moves steadily south, hoping she'll find a place where the bank has crumbled away sufficiently to allow easy access to the stream, which bubbles along as if it doesn't know that it is a potantial death-trap to any unsuspecting travellers. 

the evening is cool and cloudless, and the first hints of stars began to flare in the skies above. the sun had set without much ceremony, taken its leave quietly. now and again some life would present itself against the stillness; a bull elk moved almost parallel to her, a few hundred meters away yet distinguishable against the dull light of the horizon. it appeared formidable, yet solitary, and for a long moment her gaze followed it until somewhere in the blurried horizon it disappeared. she was alone again, and the river ran on.