Back in the days before Old Wood grew tired of reminiscing about his youth, he often talked about how, during the worst of the fighting, he would sleep at night with a corpse beside him as his pillow, only to wake the next morning to a pale, stiff face.
The eyewitness would describe the scene vividly in a sinister tone, and, when the mood struck him, even share the invaluable advice of which part of a corpse made the best pillow without giving you a stiff neck. He never seemed to realize whether this was suitable material for a children's bedtime story.
Grandpa's story collection became a childhood nightmare for Kraft and his cousin Ryan, to the point that every night after lights out, they had to toss their pillows off the bed before they could sleep.
In the long run, though, this desensitization therapy had its benefits. At the very least, it eased the strain on Kraft's heart when he woke to find several twisted, pupil-less faces staring at him.
"Heavenly Father, why don't you move this thing farther away?"
"We were actually planning to burn it." Green leaned against the stone wall. A small fire, kindled in a dry spot, illuminated what they had just accomplished, along with the monks huddled around it for warmth. "Given our remaining fuel, I thought it would be better to save it for somewhere more important."
"How much do we have left?"
"Wadin kept four jars. I threw away all my odds and ends." Father Green's gaze swept over the other two monks. Still shaken, they lowered their heads in shame. "They've kept some things too, but not much."
Objectively speaking, Kraft didn't think they had any reason to feel ashamed. Keeping their wits about them well enough to save some supplies