He lay prone upon the coarse straw mattress, forcing his heavy eyelids open against a dull, throbbing ache.
A blinding haze of pure white greeted him. The color stretched above him, beside him, and below, so pure that it felt clean enough to wash the mud from his soul.
He was in a white tent.At last.
Vilon groaned, a dry rasp escaping his lips, and a chorus of muffled groans echoed his pain from the shadows. He carefully twisted his head, his neck muscles stiff as rusted iron, protesting even the slightest shift.
There were others laying in rows beside him, fellow wrecks just like him, some in better conditions other in worse.
