[Folwren]

Athwen finished unsaddling and rubbing down her horse well before Dorran had returned with the wounded group. She set about to using the wood that the others brought in to making the camp fire and then, after washing her hands as best she could, she began to prepare the meal. Her short argument with Dorran from earlier came back to her as she pulled out a pan and she smiled a little. She wondered if he’d even remembered when he went back out to meet the others.

As she prepared the meal her mind wandered back to the events of the day. It had been almost fun. To her, riding out before the ones who had to go more slowly, it felt much like a holiday. The day itself had been nice, perhaps a little on the chilly side, but with a few, scattered runs in their riding, they had managed to keep warm. She and Dorran, after the race, talked quite a bit about past times, concerning horses, anyway. She learned that he had worked with his master’s horses daily. It was little wonder that he had ridden so well, then, and had not minded taking the extra weights of his pack and other luggage. He told her stories about the horse’s, and had made some of the antics of a particular foal sound so humorous and made it bring such lively thoughts to her mind (for she knew how young horses played), that Athwen had actually laughed.

After making sure that the food left to warm until the others got back, and also that water was heating up, Athwen sat down a few paces off, wrapped her arms about her legs, and stared into the fire. Everything was quiet about her. Eostre stood nearby in the shadows. She was silent, as usual. Fion and Osmod were talking quietly on the opposite side of camp; she didn’t know what about.

Sitting thus in silence for a while with nothing to occupy either her mind or her hands, she once more began to think about what was to come, and some part of her thought about what had been. Dorran had mentioned earlier the master of his village. He was kind, he had said, and would help her if he could. That was true, he probably would. What was more, Athwen had no doubt that any one of her companions here would do their best to see that she wasn’t left helpless and alone. She didn’t want to be a burden to people, though.

With a sigh, she lifted her hand and rested her forehead on it, combing back the hair with her fingers. Life was so uncertain now.

But why should that let her down? Time would tell what came, and if she met it bravely and without faltering, then she would find a way through. Dorran had said that, or something like, she felt sure he had.

A stick hissed and popped and a fragment fell from the fire. It attracted her gaze and she stared at it while the orange changed collars and then slowly faded into black as the minutes passed. A thought came to her that if she were to blow upon the stick, it would glow and glimmer again, and maybe even briefly burst into flame. If she left it alone, it would fade and die and become cold and hard, a useless clump of charcoal.

'Hope is like that,' whispered a voice inside her head. 'If you leave it lying without taking it up, it will go away for ever, and then there won’t be anything to live for. But so long as there’s hope, there’s a way to live.'

‘Hope of what?’ she murmured. There was no answer for the space of a moment. But then Osmod came up, carrying a larger piece of wood. She looked up at him as he placed it carefully on the fire. It’s bark was dry and old and the flames eagerly accepted it, the fire leaping up higher suddenly. A faint smile came to her lips and she lifted her head and let her hand fall. 'You’ll find a reason. Someday. Life’s uncertain, remember? You won’t know until you get there.'