If it weren't for that horse lifting its head, Elin might not have noticed it. Its fur, like the barren slope, was a pure gray-brown, even more pristine; the sunlight dyed its mane a vibrant yellow, like the purest primary color on a palette, while the gravel and dry grass around it were nothing more than the angry splatters left by a painter's failed attempt.
If it weren't for the four-foot-long scar on the horse's flank, Elin might have found it beautiful. The scars, inflicted by both chopping and burning, were impossible to ignore, like a desperate artist using a palette knife to ruthlessly scrape away a chunk of paint, revealing an anxious and cold white. It wore a bridle, but Elin didn't know if it had an owner; after a moment, it lowered its head and walked out of Elin's sight.
Elin rubbed his left eye and grabbed the left hand of the woman sitting to his right.
"Extend your hand forward, straighten it a bit," he said, "then raise your index finger."
"What are you doing?"
"Stop talking. Extend! That's right, just like that. Now, raise the index finger. Okay, don't move, whatever you do, don't move."
The woman looked at Elin with a somewhat impatient expression but was curious about what he was doing. This curiosity would often pop into her head in the days to come because she could never figure out what Elin was thinking.
Elin extended his left hand forward, raised his index finger, and then slowly moved it to the right side, getting closer to the woman's index finger.
"...How old are you this year?" she said.
"Don't get it wrong; this is a crucial medical examination."
Elin's index finger crossed in front of the woman's index finger, and the other four knuckles he gathered hit the back of her hand. He pulled his hand back to the left for a distance and then slowly moved it over again. This time his index finger fell behind the woman's index finger. He pulled it back again, then moved it, and this time his index finger pressed against the side of the woman's index finger. He exhaled and put his hand down.
"Success after three attempts," Elin said. "I used to hear that one-eyed people have a hard time distinguishing distances, and I thought, what's so hard about it? It's just a matter of things looking bigger up close and smaller from a distance. Now I understand."
"You haven't adapted yet," she said. "It will get better over time."
"Of course, it's just that I feel..." Elin put his palm against his closed right eyelid. "There should be something here. It accompanied me for over thirty years, something I couldn't shake off even if I wanted to, and now it's gone, leaving only a...hole."
"Don't talk about these things."
"I need comfort. Let me lie on your thigh."
"No."
"Oh, I forgot you don't like the outdoors."
"I don't like you losing an eye. But I dislike even more that you think you can behave more foolishly just because you got injured."
"Show a little sympathy, Glocara."
Elin looked at her; Glocara, with her eyes half-closed due to the swift mountain wind, had a small grain of fine sand sticking to the skin near her eye. She flicked away a small piece of grass tied to the end of her long hair, as if emphasizing that she hadn't heard Elin's words. She hadn't been happy for many days, but Elin couldn't figure out whether it was because of the fact that he lost an eye or the subsequent series of behaviors he triggered. He understood that speculating on the other's mood was a narcissistic behavior, but Elin hoped things were really that simple because the world brought her more instability than Elin represented. To keep her away from unpleasant things, Elin believed he was more reliable than the entire world.
He stood up, took more than ten steps forward, and then stopped, looking at the small village below the hill. At first, he thought of finding that horse, but quickly gave up on the futile effort. The small village in front of him could be circled on foot in just over ten minutes, with a dozen or so houses that were not much better than shanties—some were indeed just shanties, the crops in the fields didn't look very promising, and the whole village had only one well. However, this scene did not bring disappointment. A few years ago, this piece of land was called the Northfold Farm, a base where the Syndicate attempted to disrupt the supply routes in Arathi. Since the military and adventurers jointly drove away the enemies from the refuge valley, people started settling here. No one knew why the first residents of the village made such a choice—they could easily go to the much easier life in Southshore, not to mention that the war situation in Arathi was far from truly settled. But the fact was that they built houses and cultivated fields. They allowed this mountainous area to proudly say to the sky, "Look, I've supported a group of people under your gaze." Perhaps one day, heavy rain would wash away these crude houses, and enemies would plunder this barren land. But at this moment, sky, you can see the smoke rising into your forever open eyes; you should timely give sunshine and rain, because this is what you owe them.
"Glocara," Elin turned around, "when we return to Stromgarde, the first thing I'm going to do is have Jorgen send me the finest eyepatch as compensation, made by the best court tailor, costing at least fifty gold. You understand, right? Like the ones pirates or rogue heroes wear in the storybooks kids love. The little ones get excited when they see words like 'one-eyed bandit'; what else can you do? They just love it. I'm going to ask Jorgen to give me one of those. I'll become a character like 'One-eyed Detective Elin' in the future, and Elaine will know that her dad is a hero."
"Elaine is already thirteen," Glocara said, "she won't buy into that."
"Okay, okay, I just want to lie on your thigh and face such retaliation."
For a moment, they didn't speak. Glocara looked up at the slightly silver sky and felt a small insect crawling over the back of her right hand in the grass.
"Jorgen is so stingy," she said, "a fifty-gold eyepatch? You're dreaming."
"I'll threaten to resign."
"You won't."
"Are you sure? It's just a matter of throwing away this thing."
Elin took out the silver badge, held it in his hand, waved it into the sky, and let it fall into his sleeve. Then he showed Glocara his empty palm, but she seemed uninterested in this childish trick.
"You can't quit this job."
"I can do many things. I already have thirty-five business plans prepared..."
"I mean because of Jorgen. You can't stop."
"What do you mean?" Elin deliberately squinted his left eye. "Explain."
"Nothing. Anyway, that's how it is."
"Maybe you're right."
He turned his head and continued to look at the village below the mountain. A cold mountain wind blew up, and he avoided it because he didn't want to feel the air hitting his right eye socket. This obvious avoidance suddenly made him start cursing himself silently for fussing so much just because he lost an eyeball. I shouldn't be so whiny. This is not like me. He thought, those who lost limbs are much more unfortunate because once the four limbs are gone, they're gone completely; and everything his right eye had seen was already permanently stored in his brain. He hadn't really lost anything, and he gained something else.