Aramith squatted beside "the big rock," hunched like a defeated scarecrow, dragging a twig through the dirt. At first, he'd been tracing neat circles, but the cold wind had turned them into wobbly spirals and jagged lines.
He sneezed again for the fifth? Sixth? He'd lost count. His teeth wanted to chatter, but he was too busy sulking.
"How's it fair," he muttered, "that I get close enough to feel the warmth and then," he mimed a push with the twig, "I have to come sit here in the cold?"
His breath puffed white in the air. The laughter of Mozrael and Lynnor drifted over now and then, light and unhurried, like they were having the time of their lives while he wasted away into an icicle.
They didn't even care that someone was out there freezing and waiting while they enjoyed.
And a pervert? He thought bitterly. Really? After all I've done, Lynnor had to call me that.
He snapped the twig in two without realizing it. "I'm not forgiving her for that."
