Tom was cold. His nose was running.
He was cold, and in a fluffy brown bathrobe, and the only thing he could think about was that he was grateful that the bathrobe was not pink.
It was fluffy. Adam was making sure that he was still there, with his head under the towel, inhaling the strange tea the healer had brewed for him.
"Telets," and continuing with the old married couple routine… "Honestly now, Terror? What if you had killed the boy? What if the rocks had fallen on him? What if…"
"If he can't survive something that just turns rocks and shrapnel into snow, how is he going to survive anything at all?"
It was a good question, even if it was spoken with the emotional compassion of someone raised by trolls, Tom had to admit.
Trolls… like the ones about which he had read in books. But were the trolls here, in this world, the same?
