The remaining townsfolk gathered behind the line of fighters. Even without understanding a word, Phaewyn knew what was happening. The fighters retreated slowly, everyone pressing towards the doors, with a few combattants in front of them, pushing the wooden gates open. A couple of them slipped outside, readying themselves on the other side of the doors, to push them closed afterwards. It was going to be difficult. They had to be fast, to slip out before they were chased. Phaewyn leaned a bit against the boy she had deemed a friend, sword in her uninjured arm. The boy had kept the other sword for the moment, though it seemed heavy for him, the tip dragging against the grass.
A line formed, the villagers rather orderly exiting the town, the least injured helping those unable to walk on their own. Enemy arrows flew their way. Some fell, to be left behind. Phaewyn and the boy slipped out near the end of the line. Outside, a few orcs had been waiting, but had already been slain by fighters. A watermill creaked in the wind, to their left, too close to be shelter. Where to go seemed to be on all the survivors’ minds as the gates shut behind them.
“Wódfen…” murmured the boy. Phaewyn glanced down at him, and he pointed to the distance, where they could just see some boulders by the side of the river.
“Wódfen,” repeated Phaewyn with a weird-looking grin- blood pouring down from the cut on her head into her eye making her seem slightly imposing. Of course, in that situation, no one really cared. She turned and started making her way through the crowd, dragging her new friend with her. As they started walking towards the marsh area, there seemed to be a sudden understanding within the crowd. The survivors started to follow, also seeing the boulders providing cover in the distance. A march formed, those who could fight surrounding those who could not. They fled at a fast pace- no time could be wasted now. The night was their cover; the sounds of remaining battle hid the noise their steps made.
The gurgling of salamanders welcomed them as they entered the marsh, the fires lighting the sky near the town creating an odd atmosphere on the Wódfen. No one spoke. Everyone seemed in shock, most looking back at Eaworth, disbelievingly. Some, more oriented towards survival, hushered the injured together, healers tending to them. Phaewyn and the boy were brought with them, sitting down next to each other as their wounds were cleaned and bandaged. The boy looked over at Phaewyn, one of her swords in his hands. He’d hold it out for her to take, but she’d shake her head with a smile.
“Ye’ll use it be’er than I e’er ‘ave or will,” she answered. He looked at her with a blank stare. She pushed the sword back towards him, making her message clear without words. Surprise passed through his face, but he nodded and kept it, inspecting it as the woman from earlier ran up to the duo, hugging the boy once more and murmuring words unfamiliar to the Bree-lander. She helped him to his feet, smiling to the huntress in thanks. The boy made a clumsy salute with the sword, and turned to leave.
“Wait!” the huntress called out as they left. The boy looked back, not expecting interruption.
“Phaewyn,” she said, pointing to herself. The boy nodded, but, the two of them receiving shushes from the rest of the survivors, he never answered, instead smiling, before making camp with his mother, nearby.
Day fell to night. Phaewyn, tired of waiting, climbed up onto a boulder slowly, keeping watch on Eaworth as the flames died down, the stars appearing one by one in the sky. She looked up at them and smiled, blowing a kiss before settling down upon her rock and waiting.
In the end of the night, still gazing upon the field separating them from the orcs, a figure came into Phaewyn’s sight.
Gaeded.
Phaewyn hurried down the boulder best she could, stumbling to her friend, who crumbled in front of her. Some of the survivors heard the commotion and came. As they carried her to a healer, Phaewyn couldn’t help but smile.
I’ve found a star.
