Barrow Fields und sahn sich nur noch zuweilen im Traum;

there is disgust in his voice, something beneath the words that speaks to knowledge that runs deeper than fables. he offers it freely, his tale, and she is a silent audience. it comes to an end, and she considers his early words again. she does not think places like these belong to any one thing, any one tale. they exist in-between, separate, dangerous if one allows. 

he ascends the knoll beside her, and for a moment her gaze returns to the line of the distant sea. the wraith commits to memory what he has shared. " there is truth in all the stories. " the words are accented, dry, sandpaper against her throat. and yet they come easier in this in-between place, amidst talk of legends with a man with half a face.