[Envinyatar]

He bit back the remark which came first to his mind. ‘What is pride to those who are dead.’ He understood that she meant well, and after all she knew nothing of him, and that, by his choice.

Where was she now, he wondered, the one with whom he had felt safe enough to tell his story. She had listened, and made no judgments, only called him back from his memories to stand before her.

The stars were still hidden in the early evening sky, as he leaned against the stable door’s frame. Wilwarin would be there, he thought glancing up to the northeast. A small breeze picked up the dirt in the yard and spiraled it upward for a space of time, and moved on.

*^*^*^*^*^*^*

Derufin’s stomach sent up a cry. ‘Don’t stand about like some moon-faced calf,’ it said. ‘All poets aside, you can’t live on thoughts of love and other airy subjects!’ An ominous rumbling issued from beneath his shirt. ‘ Feed me, you ale-swilling lout! Or I’ll bring you to your knees like a fainting maid.’ He rubbed his hand over it, and listened to it growl and grumble in its emptiness.

He paused in the yard between the stable and the kitchen’s door long enough to brush the sawdust from his shirt and breeches and wash the day’s grime from his hands. A quick splash of water to his face refreshed him, and he ran his hand over the stubble on his cheeks and chin, wondering if he should take time to scrape it off.

‘Cook won’t mind if I look a bit rough,' he decided. 'She’s seen scarier things, I’m sure.’ Derufin pushed back his dark hair and made for the door, the smell of homemade pie drawing him on . . .