[Folwren]

Athwen was gasping as she rode forward. Osmod was by her side. She glanced his direction and wanted to thank him for trying to help her, but she didn't have breath or time. They were coming closer to the others now and at a glance she saw that there was trouble there. Besides the wounded and dying Easterlings on the ground, there were also the bodies of their group, and Sythric, although he was mounting his horse and urging her forward up the hill, appeared to be wounded. Athwen stopped Parith and tumbled down from the saddle, rushing forward towards where Brand lay, half propped up on a rock. She reached out and grasped his arm.

'Brand. Brand!' she cried, her voice frantic. He looked at her, and in his eyes she saw fierce pain and something else she couldn't quite place. 'Can you get up? You've got to fight!' She released his arm to look at the blood stained tunic at his shoulder. He couldn't fight. . . not with that. She looked about her, and to her dismay saw Raedwald lying senseless on the ground. She didn't know if he was dead.

Brand started under her hand and she looked back quickly. His eyes were lifted to something behind her and he gasped her name. Her hands were on the hilt of his sword in an instant and without looking she whirled about with a hoarse cry.

Athwen knew nothing of sword play. She swung wildly, only aiming to hit her enemy. The large Easterling took several paces back at the first fierceness of her onslaught, but then he stood, parrying every stroke with infuriating skill. Athwen hated it. She hated him, and she hated everything else. Her jaw was clentched and there was no maidenly look about her face, but there were tears, tears of rage that only came to women at a time like that.

She made a rash move, a large stroke, and the Easterling dodged easily to one side. She stumbled with the force of her own move. A blow then from his large fist sent her sprawling, with the sword flying from her hand. She lay still one moment, her eyes opened. Directly across from her lay Raedwald, and she had no doubt now that he was dead. Then, between her face and his, she saw, just within reach of her hand, a rohanian dagger. The sound of a heavy boot was behind her. No clear or definite thought came to her as she reached out, quick as lightning, grasped the fallen blade, twisted beneath the man and his groping hands, rose up onto her knees and then...

She wasn't expecting the tearing sound the blade made when it slipped between his ribs. Athwen didn't remember that with such a wound blood would have to come. The dagger was thrust in up to the hilt, and the dark, warm blood flowed out and stained her hand. She jerked back, leaving the dagger within his side. Her eyes nearly started from her head, and the scream she wanted to utter was caught in her throat. She looked up and just saw the brief, dying look in the Easterling's face before he turned and fell. She had killed a man.

Her senses came back in that one, sweeping, horrible moment. She trembled violently from head to foot. Her left hand, her clean hand, lifted to her face, and was placed half over her eyes, and she turned away. She didn't take a step, though, as a sudden sob wrenched her chest. More followed until she was helplessly weeping. Tears quite blinded her. Slowly, Athwen sank to her knees, and then by degrees she bent lower and lower towards the ground until her face touched the cold, wet earth. One hand still covered her face, the other was held out stiffly from her body, half coated in blood.

She cried for Raedwald, for Brand and Sythric. She wept for her home, her friends, her family and her past life. And Athwen mourned for the dead Easterling behind her.

'I can't do it,' she cried, her voice choking and her words probably unable to be made out with her face towards the ground. 'I can't go on. Why didn't you take me with you? Why? Why?' That haunting question - again. She wanted to rise, to run, to flee from death and blood shed, to leave the bounds of the earth, leaving all battle, guilt, and hate behind. But she couldn't. That road was not for her and she had no choice in the matter. And so she lay in the wet grass, completely overcome and completely helpless, crying such tears as she had cried the first day. . .tears she had hoped she would never have to cry again.