Thorvald’s Wyrd 120
Warm air on his face. Thorvald tried to open his eyes but frozen breath sealed them. His hands refused commands to pry eyelids apart and so the world remained in darkness.
“You must move or you will die.”
Death might be welcome for the warmth the pyre would bring to his bones.
“Come back, Saviour.”
Saviour. He’d won. Icewind lay dead. Realization dripped into the thoughts. “Sunna?”
A spring breeze. “Rise. Rise and walk again.”
Thorvald sucked in air, held it until his lungs ached, squeezed his eyes to crack them open, and looked into the face of the sun.
Small Realities 
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