Waiting seemed impossible, yet Cwen found that concept was the last thing to rot when years passed before her eyes. Survival was a far heavier task at hand for Cwen under Aelfric's lordship. It seemed at times even her breathing was too much in his presence. Staying in the shadows, living with the necessary was to be her saving grace and that was enough for her.

Cwen accepted stability with this knowledge. She accepted that Glenna was bound to succumb to her sickness. The older woman had apologized to Cwen, a girl of fourteen, all because she was leaving her to the wolves. She accepted when the time came that Beocca was meant to leave for Wessex. It was for the best, after all how long would he have lasted in Bebbanburg when Aelfric's trust in him waned with each passing moon? They were meant to leave her eventually. The years brought Cwen grief. Then there were its bright moments. Ones much happier than the pain.

The clashing of metal broke Cwen from her thoughts. She crosses her arms over her chest, this and her raised brow making her vexation toward Orvyn obvious. His sword casts a dark shadow over Wihtgar, a small boy who held a sword of his own, one much too big for him. It was clear in how he struggled to hold it high, watching as it thumps into the dirt every time he attempts to lift it.

"What do you think you're doing?" Her voice rings out before the boys can spar again. "He's too young to fight, let alone use a real sword."

Wihtgar was at an age where man fighting against man in glorious battle was a dream. It was expected he would be mischievous if he were not on Cwen's tail. Cwen took that as some hope for him not causing trouble. Orvyn on the other hand when he had the time, had taken it upon himself to teach Wihtgar some things he had been learning. Neither he or Cwen were wise in age, yet their nature got the better of them when it came to the young boy who currently swung, failingly, the heavy sword around like a toy.

Cwen shook her head, holding back laughter at the two who snickered together over her chastising. Orvyn took the metal swords away, grabbing two weathered wooden swords, finding Wihtgar's whining amusing. He raised his now wooden sword and directed it towards Wihtgar. A prideful grin graced his features as he could now hold it straight up in the air. Orvyn nodded his head.

It was flimsy, but confident swing from Wihtgar, fit for a child. Orvyn immediately swings back, the wood clattering together in a mismatched unharmonious battle. Wihtgar gave a boyish grunt, being pushed back enough for him to slide. His muddied boots took the brunt of his determination, and Cwen could tell she would have to find someone to fix his boots again.

"Got to hit harder than that," Orvyn teases, unbeknownst to him a glare fixated on him from Cwen and another hawk like stare watches them spar. Orvyn slices again, the boy and him in a stand off as their swords strain against one another. Of course, Orvyn being much larger and older, retains the upper hand as he brings his sword back and slams the splintery blade down making Wihtgar lose his balance.

Wihtgar yelps, rolling to the ground onto his ankle. Cwen pushes herself off of the crate she leaned on and rushes over to Wihtgar without a second thought. His groans echoed through the square, catching some attention.

"Are you hurt? Show me, show me." Wihtgar unveils his foot from under his leg and stretches it out for Cwen to examine it. Her pokes and prods make him hiss in pain but the weight of his father's stare was more painful than anything. "Let us get you inside," she whispers. His ankle thrashes from her grasp and he stands.

"I'm fine! I want to go again!" Cwen exhales, anxiety eating away at her when she sees who Wihtgar was glancing up at. Aelfric stood on the rampart eyeing Wihtgar as if he were not his own son, as if he were in mere judgement. An unclear look was in his eyes that made Cwen want to yell to not belittle his own son, to just allow him to be a boy, or better yet, she would rather just slap the older man's face. The last idea would stay in her dreams though. What sweet dreams they were.

Wihtgar walks off, leaving Cwen kneeling in the dirt, but she catches the slight limp in his walk. Orvyn shakes his head at Cwen. He needed this, his look alone told her. Orvyn chuckles to lighten the tension and readies his weapon.

"Ready, boy?" Cwen goes off to the sideline once again, her eyebrows taut, her dress dirtied at the knees.

"Of course, boy."

Orvyn chuckles at the taunt. "You hear that, Cwen? " Orvyn grabs Wihtgar and picks him up. The two laugh at Wihtgar's fight in the air. "He thinks I am a boy!"

"Well, what would you be if not a boy?" Cwen wonders out loud, feigning curiosity.

Wihtgar laughs harder and manages to wriggle away from his grasp. He holds the sword up and whacks Orvyn in the side before he can block the hit. Orvyn stifles a groan and moves away from the swinging boy.

"See? The things you can do when you can hold the weapon," Cwen says from the sideline, pointedly at Wihtgar who sheepishly held onto the sword. She strolls up to him, taking it from his hand while eyeing his ankle. "And when your opponent thinks he has the upper hand, you go for the final blow. It helps if he underestimates you," she jokes, making Orvyn roll his eyes, but Wihtgar preened at the praise.

"Care to demonstrate for the boy?" Orvyn asks, gently swaying the sword. An excited gasp escapes Wihtgar.

"Show me, Cwen!" Cwen rolls her eyes playfully. She squints at Orvyn as he approaches her already preparing his stance.

"If I must."

Orvyn teasingly juts the stick out towards her, making her flinch back only before she realizes he was waiting for her to make the first move.

Cwen mistakingly lets her eyes flicker to his legs first before swinging. He blocks the hit but his legs buckle at the anticipation, as if he was still expecting to be hit and with that assurance Cwen hides her smirk. His brief but still taunting smile only draws her in to hit him again. Her hits were strong but not as strong as his, he trained far longer than she ever had. Cwen could see in the corner of her eye how Wihtgar gasped and cheered, making the chore of fighting actually enjoyable.

"I believe he wants me to win," Cwen says, goading him to follow her movements backward.

"What a disappointment that will be for him then," he grunts out, pushing forward. Cwen scoffs, but the moment she lifts her stick, Orvyn hits it away and pokes her in the stomach.

"Can he do that?!" Wihtgar yells from the side as Cwen grabs the sword from the ground. "He cannot do that!"

"Yes I can," Ovryn answers while poking Cwen again, earning a yelp from her.

Cwen swats the stick away from her. "Stop that." A moment of silence occurs before the two laugh. "You have won honorably, I will give you that," and with a waggish roll of her eyes, she makes her way to Wihtgar.

"I will require the sword, lady," he calls out from behind.

She turns back, tossing the wooden sword. "Come, Wihtgar. Orvyn will be quite busy, won't he?"

"I fear she is right, boy. I will not have a moments rest until I must sleep." He places a hand over his heart as if wounded, yet a coy pout danced on his lips, one that Cwen was quite familiar with. She nods at his response, quirking up a smile before ushering Wihtgar inside.

An insidious weight on the back of her head disrupted the giddiness inside and as much as she wished to ignore it, the stare was stronger than her resolve to not give in. There on the rampart, Aelfric stood speaking with Scallion, instructing him of something, Cwen knew not what nor did she want to care, but the way his eyes followed her as he spoke sent ice through her bones. Aelfric never wavered, a man like him has to intimidate anyone, even a girl, his niece, to feel powerful. With her head turned back to him, those dark eyes would remain burned in her memory through the day.

Cwen thought back to Beocca and the words he gave to her before he departed. Never trust your uncle. Do not bring attention to yourself.

As far as she knew, if he was not dead, he was as happy as a priest could be in Wessex. Lucky for him, she thought to herself. At times Cwen wanted to blame the priest for abandoning her, knowingly leaving her in her uncle's grasp. But she could not blame him for escaping, nor could she blame him for his perseverance. Bebbanburg was blocked away from the rest of England, at least it was for Cwen. It was imprisonment that at least allowed her the freedom of fresh air, of caring for her cousin, of getting cow slips from Eadlin when the springs were willing to give them. As long as she was not in his line of sight, she was not a threat, and she remained safe. At least partially.

Cwen was not a boy, she was not like Uhtred, though she was sure Aelfric was told brutal warnings. That if she were to marry she could give birth to a son, a man who could threaten his claim. A grandson of the Lord Uhtred before him. Or she could raise an army against him with the help of her brother or a husband. Perhaps both if she felt so inclined. The possibilities were a long list and Aelfric was certainly convinced keeping her close behind the walls of Bebbanburg was the best option. An old woman with no legacy left in her veins would clear the way for Aelfric. She allowed this if it meant surviving.

The sun inched over the sky eventually sinking below the horizon enough for light to deep through the windows of the great hall. It was enough where not as many candles needed to be lit and less men were likely to be roaming the halls, much preferring the ale house.

Wihtgar sighs as Cwen pulls the fur over him in bed. The breeze from the passing summer grew bitter in the evening but his sullen face worried her more than anything.

"What's wrong?" She queries, knowing he would answer. He never withheld anything from her. She glances at his ankle for a moment, wondering if the pain returned.

"Father did not eat with me again."

Cwen tried to hide how she felt but could tell she failed from the way Wihtgar's eyes were torn up. It has been at least a year but still, he was always disappointed and shocked by the outcome. Surely the incident in the yard caused him to worry for the reason.

She leans in, tucking him further, avoiding eye contact. "Your father has a lot of responsibilities. I am sure he would rather eat with you than focus on his many many letters and men talking his ear off. I know I would," Cwen says trying to lessen the frown tugging at his lips.

"Why can't you eat with us?" Cwen falters for a moment, wanting to answer but how could that be answered without ruining the image of his only parent?

"Sleep now. Perhaps tomorrow he will break fast with you, and you can tell me all about it." She hoped the words would comfort him in the night and let him rest, despite how unlikely they would be true.

Wihtgar reaches up for her cross, brushing his fingers against the citrine center. He had done it many times before when he was a babe, and as a boy he still seemed to find comfort in it just as she does. Cwen reaches for his hand, brushing her thumb over his fingers. It was not the large gem her brother used to own, but it was enough for a girl growing into a woman, enough for a woman who owned nothing but her name.

His hand retreats from the necklace and he closes his eyes. Cwen blows all the candles out, leaving him alone with his dreams, ones she hopes are peaceful.

Just as she expected on a summer night like this, less men were walking the halls, as she knew they'd be wanting the warmth of women. Aelfric would most likely not be alone in his own room, the one that used to be her father's. Yet it did not bring her the satisfaction as it usually did knowing he would not leave for the night. Even when she knew no one was watching, she could feel a sense of someone near, somebody knowing her plan. Cwen approaches her room, whipping her head around the hall so she could open the door wide enough to snatch her cloak.

The kitchens were as deserted as the corridors, allowing her to make it to down to the cellars. Hood covering most of her face, she stalks through the shadows. Candles lined each room. She wrapped the cloak tighter around herself, though she knew not why.

A barrel clatters on the ground at the end of one of the cellar areas, closer than she expected. She gasps, ducking below one of the wooden crates before she hears a sound.

"Psst, psst."

She peeks from below and lets out a sigh of relief. There Orvyn stood under his own cloak, not in the area she expected. He always ventured further into the cellar, never in the rooms near the entrance in fear of someone hearing anything.

Orvyn grasps at her hand, pulling her toward him. "I told you earlier in the yard I would be able to escape for the night. You are shaking, what happened?"

Cwen furrows her brows, gripping him tightly before turning around. "Did they suspect anything?" Orvyn sensed how her paranoia is a storm. He didn't know where it came from as Aelfric barely paid attention to her. To Aelfric, she was no one, she might as well have been one of the servants.

"No, they never do. What is wrong?"

Cwen sighs, leaning her head against his shoulder, not being able to help but glance at the direction in which she came. "I have a bad feeling, Orvyn. Like something is going to happen, and I don't know what to do. I have no power, not in Bebbanburg at least."

"Not in Bebbanburg?" Orvyn pulls Cwen from her rest and looks into her eyes. "Your uncle has never disturbed you before, what is the matter now? Has he said something to you?"

Cwen did not want to answer, because she knows the answer would not concur with her feeling. And it would leave Orvyn with the idea that she was as paranoid as she felt. Yet she still answered, "no."

Orvyn rubbed her arms and embraced her further. "He is not a threat to us, Cwen. If he were, he would not have trusted you with his son. Wouldn't he have locked you away instead? Or worse, have you killed?" The question made her flinch in his arms, though it confused him further.

"That would require him to care for his son the way a father should. He did not care for my father or my brothers. That love would be somehwere inside of him, but it's not. He is more soulless than the Danes."

"Cwen, he could have done anything years ago," he starts, suspecting her fear of death by Aelfric's hands has worsened, "when you were a child, why would he do so now? I know he is not a good man, trust me. But suspecting him of more harm will only drive you to insanity."

His words sounded like a invocation she grew weary of. She knew he was right, of course. It has been years after all. She had grown up under Aelfric's watchful state now, no matter how tiresome his game had become.  He could have beaten her. He could have starved her of every privilege, yet he didn't stop her from watching after Wihtgar since his mother died giving birth to him.

"It's just sometimes the way he stares, frightens me." Cwen frowns. "I fear one day he will change his mind and have me killed." Orvyn pulled her head back from his chest.

"That will never happen. I swear it." He leans in pressing his lips to hers in a chaste but reassuring kiss. Still, Cwen felt anything but reassured. Guilt flickered at how she filled their night with her fears. Orvyn reaches under her chin and picks her bowed head up and shushes her, brushing the fears away.

The next morning, Cwen rubbed at her eyelids knowing that sleep evaded her. Despite Orvyn's attempts at easing her, no matter how lovely they were, she still could only think about the endless possibilities of her uncle's mind and how he watched her yesterday. She sat at the table after having just dressed knowing that soon she would be waking Wihtgar and spending the day with him in all his exuberance. In a way, that could make all those thoughts flee.

"I managed to snag an extra piece for you today," Eadlin whispers in a tune-like voice, happily taking Cwen away from her restlessness. Eadlin had taken to Cwen and not let herself abandon her.

She sat behind Cwen and began to tidy her long locks. "How do you manage to ruin my hard work every time?" Cwen avoided her own jumbled state by staring down at the scarcity of food and breaking off a piece of the bread Eadlin got for her.

"I am simply breathing and my hair becomes a hornet's nest. I will not apologize for that." She hands off the other half to Eadlin, ignoring her reproving look, and taking a bite of her own as Eadlin uses one hand to wretch another tangle free.

"You are lucky I enjoy this," Eadlin says. "Last time you tried to plait my hair I could not brush for weeks."

"You exaggerate!" Eadlin breaks out into laughter, seeing Cwen pout at the thought of her attempt. "Eat your bread." It was not a command but Eadlin still fought against it.

"You should not give me anything. You do not eat enough," she groans out.

"I take what I am given. No more."

"I swear that man would try to feed the pigs more if he could," Eadlin grumbles her complaint, not letting Cwen's shushing stop her. "You allow far too much. To him you are no better than the animals."

A tug to the braiding pulls out a gasp from Cwen, but Eadlin's words rendered her silent otherwise. It was true. He had no respect in his body reserved for her. He allows food out of the stores enough for the people of Bebbanburg to be sated. For Cwen, she must expect the minimum.

Eadlin curses herself in her mind for her incessant words and asks, "Uh, is Wihtgar alright? I saw him fall while attending to the laundry yesterday." The change of subject was refreshing, and Eadlin knew to do it when Aelfric brought out the worst in her.

"It was more of his pride that was wounded. His father was watching."

Eadlin shakes her head. "Why is he so hard on the boy? He is such a young age, too young to be fretting over fighting."

"He wants his father to take pride in him. Show him attention. He is younger than I was when my father died" Cwen mumbles but Eadlin hears it clearly.

"You never told me about that."

Cwen shrugs. "It has been years now. I was not close to him. The most I got from him was a necklace his wife made me wear. He went to battle one day and never returned."

"And then your uncle became the Lord?"

"And then my uncle tried to buy Uhtred from the Danes so he can be Lord instead of my brother." Eadlin's eyes widen, her hands removed from her hair and wrapping around her shoulders.

"That is a dreadful way to be condemned. I am sorry."

Cwen chuckles wryly, wiping a stray tear that threatened to escape. "It was not me who faced it. I suppose maybe he had a better chance among the Danes than our uncle. He looked happy if I remember."

Eadlin allows Cwen to sit for a moment in her thoughts, watching as her hand fiddles with the cross against her chest. They had grown close when Eadlin first started working in Bebbanburg under her mother in the halls. Eadlin's mother was a fierce woman, yet never crossed Lord Aelfric during her service or lifetime. It was as if everyone knew what he was capable of without him even making a move. Cwen was seemingly quiet when they were younger but as years passed and their friendship grew, a door opened. In times like these, she finds no way to comfort her.

"Eat some bread, I should go wake Wihtgar, he should eat soon," Cwen states suddenly, letting Eadlin tie the plaited ends so she can escape to simpler tasks.

Wihtgar was wide awake by the time Cwen reached his room, and hunger was the one thing on his mind, fortunately leaving no room for questioning her fatigued state.

They skipped through the halls with Wihtgar's childish words announcing their entrance to the main hall. Cwen froze at the sight of Aelfric sitting at the head of the table, a rare sight.

"Father!" Wihtgar ran from Cwen's hold and sat on the chair adjacent to where Aelfric sat.

"Ah, finally. I was wondering if I would starve before you'd arrive," he says airily, but his face was stoic as his eyes trained on Cwen, who rounded the table.

"I apologize, my Lord. It will not happen again," Cwen says with her head slightly bowed. "I will fetch you after, Wihtgar."

Wihtgar looks up from his father with innocence radiating from him. "Will you not eat with us?"

Cwen stops in her tracks, stuttering as her eyes bounce between her cousin and uncle. "I, well, I ate already. Once you are done I will see you. Eat with your father." Cwen smiles, her mouth widening without so much as letting the emotion unveil.

Aelfric nods, allowing her leave, yet it only filled her with disgust as she left. She lets out a sigh of relief that his presence did not threaten her mood further, and knowing she would no longer feel the pressure in the hall lifted it. Cwen knew not how long they would eat together, and while that worried her, she knew at least she would not have to eat with him and disturb her routine.

"Cwen!"

The sound of Orvyn's voice and his running halts her steps, as did the state he was in when she turns. Immediate dread filled her.

Orvyn wore his leather armor, much similar to some of the men who went to fight all those years ago. And they never came back. "Where are you going? Is there a battle?" His sword lay in its scabbard, a sword that never saw true bloodshed, something a boy of his status could afford from the blacksmith who owed a favor to Cwen.

"Lord Aelfric is sending me to find Scallion. He went out yesterday, to a village not far." Seeing her face pale, Orvyn steps forward and brushes his hand over her arm, letting his voice lower. "Perhaps this is good. He is sending me out for his man. Maybe it means he trusts me."

Cwen shakes her head. "Or perhaps he is sending you to your death."

Orvyn sighs, looking around and seeing that no one was around. "Either way I must go." He grabs a hold of her hand, only for a moment and squeezes it. His warm hand was soft except for parts of his palm that had small callouses. He slips out of her grasp, his eyes set as if readying himself.

"Take this," Cwen whispers as she removes the cross from her neck and attaches it to his. "Until you come back."

Orvyn chuckles. "It is merely a mission to retrieve the man. Nothing will happen." Once again his words were anything but assuring. They sounded as if he's trying to convince himself rather than her. "I will not be long. I will be back before nightfall, I promise."

Cwen nods, swallowing the lump in her throat before turning back as the sound of men turning the corner alerts them. She could not think about Orvyn's journey, how her uncle was most likely forcing him into a fight. Why else would he send him out? Was he per chance spending too much time around Wihtgar? Around her? Did Aelfric notice how he lingered often?

Orvyn could not think about the possibilities Cwen fretted over. Too focused on his orders, his horse galloped through the woods at furious speed. He expected to be sent somehwere as far as Mercia byAelfric if he was wary of his closeness to Cwen, so this was not only disturbing but confusing. Orvyn rarely interacted with his lord, spoke few words with him during training. He could not tell Cwen that he feared for his life as much as she, but of course he did. Attention from the lord was like gaining the attention of the devil itself. It was only a matter of time before he was burned.

He came across the village at the edge of the woods in the middle of a field. Orvyn couldn't tell with the clouds across the sky how long he had rode but he tired from sitting on the saddle. Orvyn cringes, overhearing various Danes expressing their disappointment in the lack of silver lying around.

Bodies lay in the mud outside of the main hall as Orvyn approached. He leaps from his horse while not looking any of the Danes in the eyes. Although it prevented the Danes from questioning him, it did not prevent him from seeing more of the suffering that took place. He stifles a gasp, already feeling the food he ate before dawn coming up. He had never seen someone dead like this, in this capacity. His nose stung from the urge to cry and to retch at the stench of death.

"Don't leave any weapons behind," Kjartan orders his men. One of them retrieves the sword from a man' scarred body. Orvyn covers his nose and mouth and gags, turning away from the sight while catching the attention of the Danes.

"You boy, what are you here for?" Kjartan asks. His thick hair in a tight braid and kohl lined eyes glaring at him made Orvyn swallow whatever was coming up.

"My lord Aelfric sent me for his man." He tries to look the man in the eye, finding it deterring.

Kjartan laughs. "Go along, boy," he brushes him off and turns to his men. "He looks as if he is to shit his pants." The men chuckle and take joy in poking fun at the Saxon boy, but Orvyn was fine with that as long as he got to get away from them all.

Orvyn rushes behind one of the houses, forgetting about his plan to find Scallion and leans his arm against the exterior. Here, the bodies were not underfoot. Here, the Danes were drowned out. Here, the grass was not frayed from the fire. Here, the cross he kept from Cwen dangled. It swung violently and in that moment he grasped the chain, holding it back before vomiting onto the fresh dew.

He heaves, tears from the pressure lining his eyes. Orvyn backs away, gasping for air while looking around. The Danes were beginning to leave with their loot and heads held high. Orvyn blinked rapidly, reminding himself of the mission at hand.

He shoves the cross back under his armor and stumbles out from behind the house close to Uhtred who sat with Scallion at his feet. Uhtred hears the stomping of boots in the mud and through his cries of anguish he heard a voice calling for the man he just killed.

From where he spied, the boy looked as if he was to hurl any second, yet he still kept looking for the man. Uhtred scoffs, wiping the blood off of Wasp Sting on his pants. Blind anger filled him once more.

"Scallion?" Was this some fool his uncle sent? Did he simply not have enough strong loyal men behind the walls of Bebbanburg or was there another reason for sending him here?

"You, boy," Uhtred grunts from where he hid himself. Orvyn turns around, unsheathing his sword and leaning back in apprehension. His wide eyes scanned the darkness, trying to let his eyes adjust. Still, Uhtred juts out, gripping his leather armor and throwing him into the wood wall.

Orvyn feels a stiff object against his boots, regret filling him the moment he sees Scallion's corpse. He groans out in surprise, not until he is silenced by the knife at his neck. A man around his age with large eyes leered at him.

"My uncle sent you for me, boy?"

"Oh God," Orvyn chokes out, barely registering his question.

"No god. Tell me, you came with this man did you not?" His cheeks were wet but his face remained like stone.

"I did, no I mean, but I was ordered to come for him. I had no choice." Among the chaos around him, he still managed to remember he said uncle. It could not be possible. "Wait. You, you are Cwen's brother? Are you Uhtred?"

"Cwen?" It seemed he said the one thing that would stop Uhtred from jabbing the knife into his throat. Praise the lord, Orvyn thought as he almost sighed in relief.

"Are you not Uhtred?"

"You know my sister?" Somehow Uhtred held on even tighter to his armor, a cheap pathetic thing for a man to have but enough to feel secure even in a moment like this. "She is alive?"

Uhtred leaned in, looking him over with a scowl on his face. Orvyn raised a gentle hand, reaching towards his chest as he pulls out the cross from under his shirt. "This is hers, she gave this to me just this morning. Do you recognize it?"

Uhtred's blue eyes land on the cross and though he had barely seen a cross since he lived with the Danes, he recognized it instantly. The cross his father gifted her yet she only wore when Glenna asked it of her shone in this dark alcove Uhtred dragged this boy into. This boy knew his sister, he had been close enough to her to receive something valuable to their family. And even better, she is alive, breathing Bebbanburg's air unlike his fears.

Uhtred's hesitation gave Orvyn hope that he would make it back to Bebbanburg alive, that he would see Cwen again.

Uhtred's stare hardens and he pulls him away from the wall. "You will go back," he demands. "You will say you could not find Scallion."

"He will kill me." Orvyn cries out.

"I will kill you now, would you want that?" Uhtred digs the blade further into his neck.

Orvyn tries to lean away from the knife and only aggravates Uhtred more. "Please. Let me live, for your sister's sake. She is expecting me back. She thought your uncle was sending me to my death, do not make her right."

Uhtred falters, perhaps letting the words sink in. He looks back, god knows where, and Orvyn can hear his heart quicken. This is it, he thinks. Uhtred's blade pulls back an inch and he stares into his eyes. "You are right. He will kill you when you return without him. I can lessen the odds he will kill you."

Uhtred lifts his fist and hits him across the head with the butt of his knife. Orvyn falls to the ground, clutching his face with a groan.

"Go!" Uhtred demands, lightly kicking at his feet to hurry him along.

Orvyn runs out of from under the shelter into the drizzle, straight to his horse. He ignores the girl who enters the village, he ignores Scallion's blood covering his boots as he rides, ignores the cut across his neck that burned, ignores the bruise and bleeding, ignores the dread that fills him thinking of speaking to his lord as he races off back to Bebbanburg. Back to Cwen.