The Wistful Witness
You stand in the mud, the iron heavy in your hands, the smell of wet earth and old blood thick in your throat, and you do not think of glory, for glory is a thing that belongs to the dead, but you think of the porridge, the thick, golden porridge that your mother used to stir in the black pot by the hearth, a substance so dense and warm it seemed to hold the very heat of the sun within its...
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