He longed to drain the wineskin of its contents and start on another, but he forced himself to exercise some restraint. He and Gavin still had two more days of travel ahead, and tomorrow night his back, leg, and arm would be yearning even more strongly for the numbing effects of alcohol. He also needed to stay somewhat sober, as in a few hours it would be his turn to watch over their camp. They had adopted an unhurried pace since leaving Duncan and Andrew. Although Malcolm told himself he was glad to be rid of Ariella and her clan, the prospect of returning to long, empty days in that dark, miserable hut filled him with crushing despair. There was no need to rush toward the pathetic ending of his existence. Better to be out here, lying by a warm fire with a cool wash of charcoal sky over his head and the hard pressure of the earth against his aching flesh. There was a simple, harsh clarity to being in the woods, a melding of space and darkness and discomfort, intensifying his awareness of himself and his surroundings.
