Though he was tired, it felt better to be moving. Sleep was sometimes deep and empty, sometimes cruel and tinged with dreams that followed him like a string of weary ghosts through the day. His heart always woke first, full to bursting, tugging his mind awake. Where these dreams came from, or why they made visits to such distant pasts, he did not know. He was heavy with shame and a sad kind of desperation, made worse by the knowledge that he should have grown beyond these fragile states long ago. They plucked at him and chided him and accused him of so many things. They sat on his chest and pushed long thin pins into his heart.
Orpheus pulled back his warm cloak and stretched his ears into the night. He aimed them at the distant peaks of the North. He closed his eyes and leaned forward and imagined he could hear some calm voice from a mountaintop murmur something like reassurance. Some lines of ancient verses came softly into his mind and he strode onward more quickly, reciting them to the listening darkness.
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