[Laiudanama]

Trystan marched hastily through the undergrowth, hand ready to grab the knife at any minute should he need to use it against this stranger, or creature he hoped would a stranger, and not the man who he feared it might be – or against Thornden, for that matter. He knew little of the man, he realised, except that he had been a former member of the King’s Guard, and that he appeared to be a close friend, or trusted employee at least, of Eodwine. He was unlikely to have taken to Trystan, then, the boy reasoned bitterly; Eodwine’s feelings towards him certainly hadn’t seemed to improve. Maybe that was in fact the reason that Thornden had followed him: to keep an eye on him! And unfounded, of course: why, he hadn’t asked this Thornden to ‘accompany’ him! He’d stepped not a foot out of line since coming to the Mead Hall! He wouldn’t dream of it…

When the object of Trystan’s angry thoughts interrupted them, therefore, the boy was somewhat less than cordial in his response.

“What makes you so anxious to find him anyway? Is there any reason?”

“None of your—”the words were out of Trystan’s mouth before he could stop them, his façade slipping irreparably in his frustration. Thornden’s eyes narrowed immediately and, although he did not move, a tenseness, a close attention to Trystan’s every move, down to the shallowest breath of stirring of his pulse, seemed to come over him. Once a soldier… Trystan tried to regain the group he already knew was lost, running his hand back through his scruffy dark hair agitatedly. “I…I’m sorry, Thornden, I didn’t mean to snap; it’s simply…well, it is worrying, is it not, to have a man, of such proportions as were described by Garmund, running loose so close to the Mead Hall…”

“No, it is more than that,” Thornden replied, his voice controlled, making the statement as a simple fact. His eyes were still narrowed and fixed on Trystan. “There have been other strangers and vagabonds who have passed the Mead Hall; were they pursued with such zeal? Least of all by you, of course, Trystan.”

It was a statement, astutely made, but felt like a slap across the face to Trystan. His countenance was increasingly becoming that of a wild creature, ready to fight or flee at any given second, and one would have half expected his response to be the hiss of a cornered feral cat. “That is how you see me then, Thornden? A ‘stranger and vagabond’? What, in all the time have I been here, have I done to merit such scorn? From you, from Eodwine, from all his lackeys like you-”

“Lackeys?” Thornden echoed sharply, his voice rising, and this time he took a half step forward. Of course, by now Trystan had realised that he may have bitten off a little more than he could chew, but the situation was deteriorating uncontrollably, fuelled by his panic and, yes, his fear: his fear of being thrown out again, his fear of being found out and hounded by the authorities, who would surely kill him or leave him to rot, and of Stagram.

Looking down the stairs, aghast, still clutching his prize, his ‘contract’, and, half-sitting, half-lying in the chair, the gentle-faced figure… Steps running outside, he was sure, and laughing, whispered voices…

The memory that came with Stagram’s name sobered the boy, and he turned away sharply, glaring fiercely into the undergrowth with angry, desperate, searching eyes, barely noticing Thornden’s perambulatory movement towards him as he did so. He was a just a boy, he’d done nothing wrong – he couldn’t keep this up by himself any more.

Dropping the prize on the dusty carpet in what seemed like slow motion, he ran – ran for his life…

“Thornden-” he started suddenly, then stopped. What was the use? He wouldn’t understand – no, that wasn’t true, maybe he would understand, but he wouldn’t want to, and he would certainly never be able to fully see Trystan’s side of the tale, nor keep it as the secret that Trystan needed it to be, however much it was eating him up inside. To tell a soldier that he was wanted for theft and murder? The idea would be laughable if the situation wasn’t so serious. He hung his head, dark hair falling into his eyes as he closed them and took a deep breath, before turning around, shaking his head. “You’re right. You’re…I’m sorry, you are right,” he said, falteringly. “I just…look, never mind, it was just a hunch, an idea that a certain…”

The broken sentences trailed away and he managed a somewhat rueful half-smile, fingers running through his hair once again, a signature gesture. “Making any sense?” he shrugged. The tension was still in the air, but it was fading, and his panic and anger were passing, leaving behind a sad, lonely boy. Straightening up, he tried again, his language formalised, as it often became before figures of authority, although in fact, he realised, Thornden was not much older than himself – a friend, maybe, although possibly in another lifetime. “Look, it doesn’t matter: you’re right, I have no reasonable compulsion for pursuing this individual. Should we return?”