Rastaban blinked slowly, trying to clear the haze from his vision. An old man with white hair and a white beard - Vishnu? Shiva? Rama?
“I thought I was dead,” he said.
The old man smiled. “You were. But you’re not anymore. In fact, it’s probably going to be a while before you’re dead again.” He offered a hand. “In the meantime, we should probably get you some clean clothes.”
Rastaban lifted a hand to his throat. It was sticky with drying blood, but - there was no wound. Then he realized precisely what the old man had said. “Who is ‘we’?”
No comments:
Post a Comment