Nimeyal

Massod looked at his hand, which he had stuck into the campfire a quarter of an hour ago, with growing revulsion. Or rather the charred burning thing that had once been his hand. His thoughts drifted back through the time when he was a normal 11 year old Persian shepherd boy. Back in the early sixth century. "Massod, Massod..." he heard the voice of his beloved grandfather as if he were standing right beside him. And suddenly the boy was indeed back where it all had once begun. "Son, are you dreaming with your eyes open? I've been calling you for a few minutes. One of the lambs was separated from the herd. If I were a few years younger, I'd start looking myself. But I am an old man." His face and hands had aged a lot as a result of years of sunlight. In addition to the usual clothing of the Bedouins, he wore a worn-out Bedouin scarf wrapped around his chin and head, and his chapped lips, which concealed an almost toothless mouth, were hidden to a mocking smile. The old man stroked his