[Nurumaiel]

Falco saw the company up ahead, and a bitter cry was mingled with the gasp of relief that burst from his lips. He was not pleased to see them. He did not want to go to them and ask if he could rejoin their company. It was so humiliating. How could he preserve what little dignity he had left if he went to them? But if he remembered that he was returning to them because he had no choice, and not because he was sorry (for what would he be sorry?), he could still be dignified.

It had been hard to cope with the fact that Reggie was gone. He had awoken that morning in brighter spirits, feeling more than confident that they would reach Sarn Ford before their stomachs told them it was time for breakfast. But when he had gone to find Reggie... Reggie was not there. It didn't take long for Falco to realise that Reggie had returned to Sondo's group, and his soul had been filled with the deepest of bitter resentment. That he had gained only one follower in the first place was painful, but it was beyond words when that one follower deserted him.

He had sat on the river bank for most of the morning, alternating between angry tears and bitter silences. At last he had resolved to go on alone, so he took up his pack and continued on south. By noon he was desperately hungry, and there was no hint that he was close to Sarn Ford. He had walked too close to the river and slipped, and though he saved himself by grasping desperately to the bank and pulling himself up, his pack, which he had been holding, rather than having it safely strapped to his shoulders, was lost.

So he had sat on the river bank for awhile more, wondering what he should do. He had no food, and he was terribly hungry. That was bad enough, especially as Sarn Ford did not seem to be as close as he had thought. But now, with the loss of his pack, he had absolutely nothing. And so the bitter choice was before him... should he continue on in a southerly direction, and hope that maybe, perhaps, possibly, Sarn Ford would magically appear? Or should he return to the group?

He stood up, brushed as much mud from his clothes as he could, and began walking north.

By midday he was trying to decide whether it was comforting or tantalising to imagine his mother's apple pies, and the chicken they would have for supper. He entertained himself in pleasant dreams of the feast he would have when he returned home, and hoped he was not making himself even more hungry by his visions. He walked at a nice, brisk pace, and pretended that his stomach was not growling as loudly as it was.

By evening his steps were lagging, and he was so hungry that his stomach fell, for the most part, silent. He wondered how far ahead the others were, and felt angry that they kept walking instead of taking it slow so he could catch up. He didn't care if they didn't know he was following them... they should wait for him!

An hour past his usual bedtime, he wondered dully if he should get some sleep or keep going. He decided on the latter. Sleep could wait, but he was hungry, so very hungry! If he kept walking throughout the night, maybe he could catch up with them. It was certainly worth trying. He would try.

On he walked, through the darkness. He had been asking much of himself to plod on throughout the day without a bite of food, but to continue on through the night was unbearable, or it should have been. He was so dull and tired that he didn't care. Midnight came, and he was still going on. Two hours past midnight, his ragged breath caught in his throat, and he began to sob. But he still trekked on. His only hope was that he caught up with the others.

Dawn was coming. A faint grey light stole across the sky, bringing the land out of its darkness but keeping it in a cool, dim light. Falco's eyes dimmed to match his surroundings. He could barely walk. His steps were dragging. He was too tired to even cry. The first birdsong of the day rang sweetly in his ears; his foot did not lift high enough; he tripped, and fell, and did not move.

It was too much. He could go no farther. He would rather lie here and starve to death than go on. He could not go on. He had fallen, and he had not the strength to get up. He buried his face in the grass and closed his eyes.

And then he started up. Was that... smoke?

He raised his head and looked here and there. Yes, it was! Not far from him were the remains of a little fire. They must have had their breakfast here. The fire was not dead yet... they couldn't be too far off!

He felt a faint glimmering of hope, and that smallest bit of hope gave him the courage to go on. But when he tried to lift himself from the ground his arms would not support him. Each time he tried to push himself up, they buckled beneath him and he fell back. He was too tired and weak. Again and again he tried, but to no avail. At his last try he put his face down and began to cry. Why couldn't he get up?

He lay, weeping, for some time, thinking all the while that the group was getting farther and farther away. When he had rested a bit, he tried again, but it was all in vain. He began to squirm along the ground like a snake, wriggling back and forth, trying to move himself forward. He did move forward, inch by inch. But to come back to Sondo like this! Like a worm. No, pride could hold out even in the face of exhaustion.

But it gave Falco an idea. If he could make his way to one of the trees, grasp one of the lower branches, and cling on for all he was worth, maybe he could pull himself up. He felt confident that, if he could just get on his feet, he would be all right, and able to stand. Once more he tried to lift himself up, but his hungry, exhausted, thirsty body would not support him.

He wriggled his way to the river bank, and dipped his head down to take a long, cool drink. He put his hands in, splashed his face, and was soon feeling a little more refreshed. He had been walking on so doggedly before that he had been fool enough to not stop for water. But now he felt just a little better. He wriggled to a tree then, slowly, just inching along, and when he reached it he grasped a branch, took a deep breath, and then began to pull himself up. The tree was a kind support and stood straight and tall. Just a few more moments... and then he was up!

He clung to the branch, and leaned against the trunk, gasping for breath and laughing with relief. He was on his feet! How foolish that he couldn't get up himself before. He felt much stronger now in the face of this victory. Well, he would never tell his older brother that he had fallen and couldn't get up. Not even when they were old and grey, not even when they were old and white.

He stood there for a few moments, rejoicing silently, and then he pushed himself away from the trunk, and slowly released his hold on the branch. He was a bit shaky, but he was standing by himself. Now to go on.

And on he went, ignoring the aches and pains in his body, pretending that he was a great adventurer. His imaginings helped a little, but not as much as he would have liked. Yet, he could go on. The rising sun brought hope, he reflected dreamily, and didn't stop to think that it would bring heat and exhaustion if he didn't hurry.

It wasn't so very long before he found the group, and now here he was, standing, torn with conflict. During the night, on his weary walk, he had forgotten his bitterness and anger, and thought he could hug every one of them, even Sassy (as long as the boys promised they wouldn't tell anybody that he had hugged a girl). But now that he had reached his goal, now that there was no more struggling, he was once again reluctant to beg pardon... that is, to forgive them.

But he had to go to them. He must remember, he was not returning to apologise. He was still proud and dignified and aloof. He flung his chin up and strode forward, struggling in vain to hide the limping brought on by his weary, aching feet.