Leaving Umin unable to sift sound from thought. Not knowing whether the voice had entered his ear or found shape in the spaces behind his eyes.
Umin shook his woolly head to clear out the lingering rattle in his brain-box, before gingerly padding forward.
The faint fire-gleam grew achingly in breadth and height.
No longer a mere pricking but a diffuse, dancing turmeric pushing at the weight of the engirding vault.
Here the dread turns his feet to leaden clods, stopping him a few paces short of the ring of tepid fire light.