Four days. Crow knelt by the river and refilled his canteen, a frown now permanently etched into his rugged features. Not that that was very much different from his usual expression. It had been four days since he had had any sort of clue as to where the Wyvern might have gone. After failing to find any tracks and realizing his best hope of survival was staying near water, as well as hoping the Wyvern had taken that path, he’d returned to the brook where he’d named his axe and followed it. The first couple of days had given him hope – he’d seen a few signs here and there that might’ve been the Wyvern, if it wasn’t some other large creature. But by the time the brook had widened and turned into a river, cold and uninviting, he was losing both signs and hope pretty rapidly. Now he looked at the the red and gold leaves that floated down to gently rest atop the water and they would have been beautiful if they hadn't carried with them such a grave message

'Winter is coming,' they seemed to say, and then the wind howled through the trees as if laughing at his plight. It seemed like it never stopped howling these days. Crow grasped a rock in his hands and stood suddenly, throwing it away towards the wind but the wind only howled louder in response, mocking his hopelessness.

'Winter is coming!'

"Stupid wind," Crow said out loud, his voice hoarse from not speaking for so long. "I've lost my mind."

The river in front of him seemed to rush by louder, joining in the laughter, and Crow scowled at it as he hooked his canteen back onto his belt. "Laugh then," he said. "Laugh at my plight. Go on then. Laugh at Snow and La; I ain’t ever gonna be able to free them. I ain’t gonna succeed at this.”

It was time to move on but Crow remained, staring at the stream. Was that really him in the reflection? His beard, already grown out before he’d left, had finally gotten in his way enough that he’d braided it and his hair he’d tied back with a thin vine he’d pulled from a tree. He shouldn’t have listened to La when she begged him not to shave it all off; it was just a hassle now. And yet it still didn’t saw it off with his knife, even though he could have, because a part of it always reminded him of her no matter how much in the way it was. Crow frowned harder and squinted into the river. He looked to be ten years older than when started out on this journey, a mere week or so ago. Or had it been longer? The days were so blended together anymore.

He spoke again, and this time his voice was softer. "Maybe I did the wrong thing. I should’ve taken him. No one would’ve found us out here -- not if I can't even find the bloody Wyvern."

'Snow would never have survived the Wildlands,' his mind whispered back to him. This wasn't the first time he'd had this argument with himself. 'You can barely survive yourself, and the winter will be the death of you.'

"Surely someone woulda taken us in, then. A village somewhere, maybe, or a city, or even a King."

'Yes, until they decided they wanted Snow for themselves or the Master came for him. He wouldn't let him go so easily, you know that. Even if he was forced to kill you both to satisfy his grudge, and a man like a King would want the beauty of Snow for himself. To show off. To display. You would be slaves again.’

"Why are the hearts of men so cruel?'

‘And why,’ whispered that voice again, ‘are you talking to yourself? Or what, are you talking to the wind? Face it Crow, you’re already slipping.’

He didn’t answer the voice this time. With a sigh, Crow rose to his feet and went on his way, following the river into the darkness that lay ahead. The forest only grew thicker, the thorns longer and crueler, and the mocking of the Wildlands louder the further he went into it. He was slipping. And for what? A fool’s mission. The despair that had been knocking at the doors of his heart was finally beginning to slip through the cracks.

Death would almost be a mercy to him now.