Skellig feels as if he has been walking for a century in this heat, his skin dry and baked by the oppressive sun, his throat dry as the sand that surrounds the irrigated land nearby.

In his daze, he reaches for her hand.

(Why is she familiar to him?)

He cannot hear echoes in this space, and the lines are off-kilter in a manner that makes him dizzy and feel ill, though that could also be the heat.