Flame
an excerpt

Vahi opened his eyes.
The air before him was clear. There was no mist, and there were no ghosts. He could not see any trace of the silvery cowbebs, but he could see lights, flickering lights like distant lanterns. His hands had sunk into thick mud instead of the soft grass of the hill. Vahi breathed in a smell; a stench.
He rose abruptly. The pasture stretched at his feet, far into the distance where he could see the homes across the river. He spun around; impossibly, the hill was behind him, still crowned in its misty circlet. As he stared, Vahi thought he could hear someone calling his name.

"Shut up, Bren," he muttered. "Shut up." The shouting stopped; perhaps he had imagined it. But Vahi was certain he had not imagined climbing up the hill. He started again towards the mound, faster than before. His hands reeked of manure. The hill was less steep from this side, but Vahi put his hands down on the turf anyway. Touching the earth made him feel safe. He dug in with his knees, feeling the wet patches pad with ground stalks and pebbles. The grass was soft, like a blanket, or his mother's braid. He brushed his hands through it as he climbed, wanting to feel the coolness on his skin, until he crawled on his belly, his palms flat against the ground, the grass tickling his mouth and nose. He was not climbing, he was swimming in the meadow, swimming up to where the whirlpool of silvery light shone like a ring on the surface of the water.