And he looked down on two tiny figures, from where he lay at the top of the hill. In the dawn’s first light he spied Sekenre and Hrosan, standing over the grave, then making their way onward, up the slope.
He in three places at once, observing and dreaming: walking with Sekenre up the slope, kneeling by the grave, and in the grave.
His numbed feet could not find purchase. He fell many times. The earth shook slightly. Stones rolled past.
“Look,” the boy said, pointing.
He looked. Among the massive boulders at the top of the hill, overlooking the battlefield and the forest, a face was revealed, carven there or formed by some impossible freak of nature. He didn’t know which. He had no time to consider. He screamed at what he saw.
The face was his own.
It spoke with the voice of thunder.
