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There was a sound behind him, as though someone was sneaking up on him. Fion tore his gaze away from the fire, giving a halfhearted glance at the woman who was slowly approaching him. What now? Oh, perhaps the Wolf-Hammers (as he had come to think of them as) had found another rock that needed to be forcibly introduced to his forehead! What fun! He could--
"Do you mind if I sit by you?" she asked, interrupting his grouchy thoughts. "You don’t look like you feel well at all and I thought that if you had someone to talk to, it might take your mind off things. Not that I’ll be a particularly jolly companion, like Brand or Incana, but I’m willing to keep you company if you’ll have me until dinner is ready."
Fion thought about this for a moment. As far as he was concerned, he had every reason to dislike these people. All right, perhaps he was being a bit harsh; they claimed it had been an honest mistake. But still! Rock in the forehead!! Mistaken for an ugly old Easterling!
On the other hand, though, Fion didn't like being left alone, either. He had in fact harbored secret fears that the others would leave him behind if he wasn't well enough to ride tomorrow morning. Certainly, the fate of Bregoware was more important than the well-being of one young man, and the message to the King couldn't wait. But he didn't want to be stuck here, in the skeleton of the old village...
"That's.... fine," Fion grunted to the woman, his eyes glued to the ground. There was a sound of rustling fabric as she sat down next to him. An uncomfortable silence settled beween them for a moment, and Fion finally broke down and tried to start a conversation.
"You're from Wulfham, then?" he asked in a monotone voice, swishing the tea around in the cup. There was a pause from the woman, and Fion almost thought she had left him. Then he looked up, and saw her staring at the cloud of smoke at the horizon. Why was-- Oh...
"Oh, I'm sorry!" he said quickly, realizing his mistake. "I didn't know... I'm so sorry!" He stared back at the ground. He felt awful; all this time he had been complaining about his forehead, where this woman had lost her entire village and said nary a thing.
She looked sad, but shook her head.
"It's all right," she said. She looked as though she was about to say something else, but then she seemed to push the idea aside and instead asked, "How old are you, Fion?"
Fion assumed that the conversation topic had been changed for a reason, so he didn't press her any further.
"Seventeen," he replied truthfully. Normally he would have lied a little and rounded upwards, but somehow he felt like he should just be honest this time. "I'll be eighteen come spring-time. And you?"
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