( This much he knows, agrees with a stubborn nod like a jolt, a motion both propelled and stunted. The cold has him, heavy and daunting chills. He breathes with the certainty of his imprecisions, steps no better calculated than when he had refused Wanda's assistance.

Better men offer him aid, still. An arm to lean on, another with warmed waters. Tea, he murmurs to a kitchen's boy in passing, and the young lad's hastened footsteps barely land, toes before heel. )

The grounds pervert ability. Shackle it.

( It feels shallow, dusted to his own ears. Stale. An excuse, as if the lands deserve it. We will speak no more of the unpleasantness. )

You may yet recover.