“It isn’t, as much as you may think.”
Robert spun round, startled at the voice which had obtrusively cut through his inner turmoil. Seeking the source, his eyes desperately searched the surrounding country. There!
There, approaching from the horizon, was a small figure clad entirely in black.
“Who is it?!” Robert called across the barren landscape.
The voice resumed, quiet yet pervasive.
“A lingerer, like you. But one who does not doubt his namesake.” Seeming to have no source, the words simply hung in the ambient space.
Clutching his fraying garb, Robert strode to meet the incomer. Eventually, they met in the center of a snow-strewn field.
“Should I know you?” The moisture froze on Robert’s beard as he spoke.
“Perhaps you would. We did not speak often, but we cared for the same crimson of which you now wear.”
The former lord straightened.
“Then you remember the old days?” he asked excitedly.
“It is my place to remember. But come.” His companion gestured to the strange, aged manor. “We mustn’t linger.”