The Burnt Man

She is singing. In all my days I have never heard such. She has been singing for half the day. The first real sounds I have had from her ... and she is singing. As we neared the glooming hills and narrow passes she opened her lips ... and a thread of colour came forth.

North and east with the elf beside me. Fate and fortune rise about me like the dust on the road. Here I ride, back into the north, the occasional wind chill as it blows from the further northlands, off the snows. Across the lands once enlivened by long forgotton Fornost.

A delightful day. Yes. I rode with the elf maid obedient beside me, and my few men about me. North from the crowded, fetid encampment, out into the hills around the northmens' camp, Esteldin. I do not fear them, the sad ragged men of half-shadows and crumbling glories. I pity them, for the foolishness of their forefathers in their choices, the payment now exacted on their faded scions.

I watch her pull up the hood of the cloak that I have given her. Enveloped in its sable folds, clad in the black dress, her face shines softly, the moon in clouds. She has been enclosed in this tent for long enough, it is time to move her to more fitting accomodation. I pull back the flap of the tent sharply. The first true light for her in many a day.

She sits. Because I tell her to sit. I am a man of passion, and dark humours boil within me now. She is wise to heed my words and do as I command. I pour two glasses of the finest red that I have. The cut of the glasses deepen and intensify the rich colour of the wine. It is too crude to liken it to the blood of my man that she has caused to be spilt. My man, to me.

All mornin' He has me there in the word-hoard. Questions, over an' over, as if I aint already told Him all I was rememberin'. Least i got a drink of His wine. so now I know what Gyth gets. I says I seen the helm -giffer three times. thats all. big man, nose like someone got very angry once and give him a swipe. Aint suprised, with the nose and that bit outta his lip he looks like a damn brawler.

A shouting commotion before I have the opportunity to examine her gear. I stride into the tent where she is guarded, supposedly, by grinning filth. I will not trust her with most Men, or them with her. Let her try to weave her glamour on her own bastard kin. I am unable to contain my mirth. Oh what I see is pitiable enough, but it does have a picquant amusement.

Gyth got a snore like fly .. buzz, buzz, buzz. Only Gyth could make a snore sound like yer wanted to dance. I know where she'll be off come mornin', so I'm gettin' there first. No sleep anyhow. each time I closes my eyes I'm awake in a moment, m' sheets are covered in sweat. At least its mine. Havin' a bit of coin for me work is getting me a cleaner bed, I suppose.

A hundred roofs and chimneys, highlighted by the rising moon ensnare my eyes as the west-gate locks behind me. The road ahead becomes strangely compelling, climbing eastwards through the town, leading my eyes to the looming Menelvagor glittering in the night sky, guarding ceaselessly over the homes of these men.

I invite her to remove all her gear, to place it all on the table beside me. Her eyes widen as she realises I speak in her language. Well enough; though each slippery syllable is bitter in my mouth, thick as ashes. I am an erudite Man, not a slack jawed fool. She needs to understand. I repeat my request. Now she understands what I mean by all. All, everything, every item, every stitch.