The mountain path was steep, and the climb rough, but there was no turning back. Every time Hazel stumbled, he caught himself, though he felt eyes on his back, could sense two big hands ready to reach in and grab him.
“I’m fine,” he growled behind him, shaking his head. There was no answer. He expected a gruff reminder in few words: that he was only here to help, he wanted to make the journey easier, that he would mend the rips in the back of his cloak with clumsy stitches and watch over him when he slept.
Hazel couldn’t admit that though he’d laid down, he hadn’t slept in days, that he didn’t care about the rips in his clothes or the stubble on his face. He wasn’t sure when he’d last eaten. He wasn’t sure of his destination. He wasn’t sure of much anymore.
“Hey.” Hazel halted in place, pausing only to ground himself on the crags underfoot, when he heard Gat speak. “I’m with you, okay?” Hazel hung his head. “Always.”
Hazel chewed his lower lip, taking the words to heart for what they were. Perhaps he was certain of one thing. “Yes, I know.” He squeezed the tattered red bandanna in his pocket, then picked up his feet again, imagining Gat’s voice:
Over the mountain, onward down the path, Hazel walked on.