I look behind me to see the lair is still there. The darkness is thick, but not so enveloping that I’ve lost all connection to other places. But I know, this is only because my body is still conscious.
I am in two places at once.
The inner lining of the feather cloak was once harsh, but it has been worn smooth and soft by repeated wearings. It lays gently against the burn scars that have always been there, newly revealed by the flame of my unquenchable heart.
Before me is the campfire. It struggles to remain as I had lit it. There is a force on the other side of the fire that is shifting it merely by being there. It is close enough to the fire to alert me to its presence. Not close enough to overtake my awareness. Yet.
My headdress tinkles softly as I look about. It is a thing not yet made, a thing as good as made, a thing waiting to be brought into being, a thing I can make. But the making of it is not yet.
My good eye sees only the fire.
My dead eye sees those just beyond the fire’s reach.
I kneel alone, waiting for the time to come. But I am not alone. He waits, just beyond. Waits for me to come fully to the fire.
With solemn timbre, he will call me, and my examination will proceed.
The feather cloak fits snugly about me. Holding scarred and unblemished, human skin and taloned hands in a gentle embrace.
The headdress tinkles softly in the deepening night. The silent night holding those that assemble to see the delivering of my reckoning.