Blood on the Moss

This is incomplete, the story travels from one scene to another, though the second paragraph might end up being connected to the third. Everything is designed to be very vague, so don't bash me on that, but i would like some critisism.

The blood had formed a small puddle on the smooth stone at my knee; I turned my eyes to the cut, and pressed softly at the tender flesh. Numbness swept through me in place of pain, and yet the numbness was something more. As if the flesh was no longer my own, part of another me, something I had somehow disregarded. My hands were grazed and marked with dirt and dried blood, yet I pressed them to the stone and rose slowly to my feet. The pain was in a way sensual, the way I expected it, the slight shock through my leg as it held my weight, and then nothing. The cut had not been clean, and I knew this should worry me, and it did, but my mind was apathetical to the needs of my physical self, feeding only on the wonderful indictments pain gave in its eventual relief. I would bandage it later, perhaps; it is clear that from such a wound I might live, but to what avail? I closed my eyes. Why have I these thoughts now? Do I feel death more keenly because he now grasps my hand?

I raise my eyes to the lake, a stillness in both waters and sky, in the wild countryside between to which my eyes catch a fox stalking his prey. The mountains in the distance are almost purple, peaks laden with snow and a great plethora of storm clouds hover over their heads like foam against an angry shore; yet for the length to which my eyes stare, I see no movement. A great stillness seems to have fallen across the land, to which only the animals and the wind pay no heed.

My eyes glaze over as I reach for the torch, yet no tears, no tears to soften the bitterness. I follow him from a short distance, his shadow leaping from walls in the flickering light of the flame. A cold wind flows through the shaft, and the torch makes a low, tearing sound, I feel the sharpness of the cold upon my skin, but I do not let it in. Ahead, his footsteps have become uniform, and my eyes drop now to the fire-lit stone at my feet as we walk. My head spins as I wonder how far we have traveled, how many hours until daylight meets the ground above my head. It seems futile, and so my mind wanders back.

A kite screened about the clear blue, playing shadows in the wind, sweeping grasses that lay at a slope towards the mountains.

“I know what it is like to loose someone you love,” his presence was fainter than usual; I could feel his focus, which seemed hazy and distant, yet somehow concentrated, and near. I thought of my fathers’ brother on the Malmiun fields, the picture in my father’s mind of the fly in his brother’s eye, the blood creviced in the pupil. My ears sharpened to the hiss of wind over the valley, eyes tracing an eagle in her clear blue skies. Is this what his brother had seen? Perhaps the sun shone less steeply, perhaps the wind duller or the sky less blue. Nonetheless, he had seen it, and it is known that the dying see most clearly.