The guards stopped in blank confusion.
A little laugh escaped Starke's lips. It was a dream. With fog over, under and in between its parts. It wasn't real to the guard, who couldn't believe it. It wasn't real to these dead men either, who were walking around. He felt alone. He was the only live one. He didn't like walking with dead men.
The captain of the guard came down warily, his green eyes suspicious. The suspicion faded. His face fell apart. He had lain on his fur pelts for months thinking of his son who had died to defend Falga.
Now his son stood before him. Alive.
The captain forgot he was captain. He forgot everything. His sandals scraped over stones. You could hear the air go out of his lungs and come back in in a numbed prayer.
"My son! In Rann's name. They said you were slain by Faolan's men one hundred darknesses ago. My son!"
A harp tinkled somewhere.
The son stepped forward, smiling.
They embraced. The son said nothing. He couldn't speak.