Rusted Red.
Zolik looked at his outstretched hand and the blood drying upon it. That was the proper color of the bird’s breast he saw back at the crossroads. He could see it now in his memory. He rested his hand down on his chest and closed his eyes as he watched the bird in his mind. He let out a slow breath as if he wanted to not scare it away. He noted details in its face, another ruddy row of feathers that framed the eyes. He would have to change his notes if he had the time. The was a loud call from perhaps Ashlette, but it sounded as if his ears were underwater.
He felt the pull of a current perhaps. His heavy body, (oh how it felt so heavy right now) tried to roll out with the tide. As much as he waited for himself to be pulled with the sea, his ankles were caught. Another snare held him in place at his shoulders. He wondered if the salty water was what made his back feel as if it was on fire. Or perhaps the arrows from earlier, (that day? that week?) had done more than he had noticed. He was stuck for now in the shallows unable to pull free from what held him. He was too tired to try.
He waited in the water and watched the bird fly above.