The days grew shorter. The nights were colder. He remembered it from before, somehow: that autumn fell harsh and bitter upon the ridges of mountains. He would not survive a winter up there, exposed to the elements. He knew he must descend to the lands that sprawled out below and take his chances there.
If...he wished to survive. If.
It was against his very nature to consider such an end. And yet, were he to find a village kind enough to take him in until spring, he feared he would be a burden to them. The gnawing frost reminded him daily of his years. Memories surfaced of a time long ago: a winter spent alone in the wilderness. He had survived it then with the vigor of youth at his side. He was not certain that he could do so now, as a man in his twilight, with dulling eyes and stiff knuckles and knees that cracked.
The old man who stared back at him from beneath still waters was wrinkled by sun and scarred by war. What use was an old man to a village? He was but another mouth to feed. Like dirt over a threshold, he would drag in with him the curse of his own haunted mind. His lapsing sanity. Waking nightmares that broke only when he bruised his hands in his blinding rage, or fell gasping and weeping to the ground. He was shackled to that raw wound of memory that bled anew each and every day. It became worse by the week.
What use was such an invalid?
Yet, by cowardice or stubbornness of will, he was not ready to die. Not in such an unfamiliar place. Not alone. So he would descend into the lowlands, and he would seek a village. And he would be useful — as useful as an old man could.
The chill air softened to the north, and further still to the east, and he followed that path for as far as he could. Mountains gave way to valleys and foothills, and those gave way yet again to a flat, rolling landscape. The forests changed. The trees were...comforting, somehow. Like...home. The earth smelled of it, too, and the mosses underfoot were a welcome change from harsh rock and gravel. The mountains had not been kind to him. He had not known it until the ache went away. Until his lungs felt satisfied by the breaths he took.
The night he made camp up on a little knoll, the easterly winds carried with them some indescribable scent. The next day, he found a set of footprints in the mud near a stream. By the time he made camp again, he was certain of it: he was being tracked. Watched. He kept an ear to the wilds, now, and his hand upon his ax. If they were friend, he would ask what he needed. If they were not...he would be ready.
That night, beside a smokey fire, with a belly full of cattail root, Eln slipped once more into a fitful sleep. His fingers gripped the ax head. His tired muscles twitched and spasmed. The memory-wound split open. He fell through it into grief.