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I buried my brother’s cadaver and armour in the desert, and I felt guilty.
Guilty that he had to die out here, far from home, with a parched throat. Guilty that I hadn’t the strength to bury him properly, especially among dunes of shifting sand. There was no headstone where he lay, only a cross with two sticks.
I prayed for forgiveness, but even in prayer I felt guilty. Because I knew the Maker could see into my mind. Even as my words spoke of my fallen brother, in my soul what I wanted most of all was an inanimate object.
The Thimble of Bartholomew.
Oh yes, even when looking at my brothers corpse, while drying like a weed under the tropical sun, still I was consumed with desire for a piece of metal.
This was written in 15 minutes during a Joy of Writing meetup. This is a continuation of Faltered.