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Gárwine watched Léof leap from his seat to help the visitors outside. He was now sitting alone, with nothing to do but sip his mead and try to convince himself (without success) that the Dunlending was a poor bard. Near the fire sat Eodwine and Saeryn, speaking in hushed voices. Everyone else had wandered away shortly after they had forgotten the Dunlending's words.
Inside Gárwine's mind two sides were debating the Dunlending. One side, sounding like Léof, argued for Manawyth, and the other, with Gárwine's ordinary voice, argued against trusting him. They both spoke to Gárwine, trying to persuade him either to like or to loathe Manawyth.
You know, Gárwine, Léof has a point there. You really don't know if those stories about Dunlendings are true, and if they are, you don't know if they apply to this Dunlending, said the first stream of thoughts.
There's some truth in every rumor, said the opposite thoughts, and besides, this Dunlending is an outlaw. All outlaws should be avoided. The thoughts seemed to snarl at the end of each sentence.
So he ran away from his family, but so did you. When you ran away from Uncle Wilfrid, were you not deciding to be an outlaw?
The snarling voice took a gentler tone. Gárwine, you did nothing bad in leaving Uncle Wilfrid. You are at an age where you can take care of yourself and seek your own destiny. It was right of you to leave the farm. You committed no crime; you neither are nor were an outlaw. You're now a man-at-arms of a great mead hall. Don't feel guilty about Uncle Wilfrid. He's the one who kept you as a laborer in his fields. Now, that Dunlending, there's an outlaw.
A third voice, a real one, broke Gárwine's thoughts. "Posture, posture! Don't sag!" The visitors whom Léof had left to help were entering, and Saeryn was already at her feet and welcoming them. Gárwine promised the two debaters in his mind that he would tolerate Manawyth but still be wary around him, and with those thoughts in mind he stood to greet the visitors.
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