The wind blows crisp and clean up here. His pursuers are far behind. He feels the first stirrings of hope.

He sits down on a rock to catch his breath. He clutches his chest where the ribs are broken. He cradles the arm that is the same. There is a lot of blood. The rushing in his ears is getting more intense. The ice up here is dazzling. He left his mask back in the village.

A hawk beyond the dazzle and the rush lets out a single cry. He tumbles forward into the snow, his fingers scrabbling at ice and pebbles for a little while, before becoming still.