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Athwen followed the young man mutely to his companion. She kept her eyes down and her mouth shut, not really knowing what would happen if she looked a stranger in the face right now and spoke to him. But when he stopped, she looked up, and her eyes fell on her own horse, being held with his reins in the woman’s hands. Silently, she reached out for him, and she was handed his reins.
“Come, li’le one, come,” she murmured, drawing him near and placing her hand on his shoulder. He was trembling, and in the back of her mind she knew he was fearing the same thing she was - the dead and the burned. But she didn’t think about it. She buried her face in his mane, wrapping her arms about his neck, and shut her burning eyes.
Oh, the cruelty of wanting to cry and not being able to. Athwen became absolutely still again, as though frozen in her place. Her little chest rose and fell and her throat was choked up, but there were no tears and she made no sound.
After a moment, however, she seemed to come to herself. Slowly, she looked up, loosed her grasp on her horse and turned about. The strangers, there were three now, she noticed, were all looking at her. Somehow, she didn’t mind, nor did she feel threatened.
“I am sorry,” she said, her tone dull and quiet. The next moment, she realized she had nothing further to say, and so she didn’t say anything, and simply stood and looked at them, just as they stood and looked at her.
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