Barley
It was the rainy season and the sky was gray. Victor’s clothes quickly grew damp with the fog and general humidity. The cold wasn’t fierce here, but it clung to his skin and wormed its way into his bones until he was quaking.
Victor’s hands grew unfeeling, clenched about the reins. He leaned forward trying to siphon warmth from the horse’s back.
He understood why most alchemists chose to live in isolation, but this was getting old.
By the time he was near Willem Dijkstra’s dwelling, Victor could only open his eyes in short stretches, and every step was bringing his headache roaring back.
The feeling of being watched persisted even behind his eyelids. With only the whistle of the wind and miles of hill around him, it mocked him near to fury.
Between blinks of darkness, there were hands touching him. Rough fabric brushed across his face. The smells of smoke and sheep and wood. The sound of hooves in the distance. Victor drifted into a warmth plush as summer before the black of unconsciousness took him for good.