The sandy-haired man lifted a hand to shield his eyes against the setting sun. His face was worn and full of soft cracks, like pale leather; the mark of a life spent toiling beneath the open sky to feed his family. He was looking west along the lane that trailed away from his humble farmstead, towards a woman on a wide, bulky stallion who was riding slowly into the golden beams. As she grew smaller and smaller with distance, the farmer’s wife came up and stood beside him.
“Odd,” said the wife, likewise placing her weathered hand before her eyes to stare after their departing guest. Her face mirrored her husband’s, though the skin was softer and sagged a little more around her cheeks and chin, and her once-yellow hair was brushed with silver.
“A bit, aye,” replied the farmer. He dropped his hand and turned to take his wife’s fingers in his grasp. “But not the first to come through these lands with a wounded soul.”
“You think she was a proper shieldmaiden?” the wife commented skeptically, but not unkindly.
“Hard to say, my love,” he answered, turning to lead her back towards their small house. It was no grand estate, just a simple cottage that he’d built with his own gnarled hands, once upon a time. The lines were clean and straight, the foundation solid, the roof sturdy. His wife had lent it her own touch with trailing vines full of flowers that crept up the walls and along the eaves. “She had the armor, and the blade. But she didn’t seem that hard sort of woman, did she?”
“Nay,” his wife agreed. “She hardly said two words the whole evening, I think. The children took to her awful quick, though. I’d say she was a mother if she weren’t out riding alone.”
As they neared the house steps, the man smiled down at his wife, and his eyes crinkled at the edges. “The girls liked her, did they?”
“Ohhh, yes,” came the chuckling reply. “Léofwyn insisted on letting the lady have some of her milk at breakfast. Just handed her cup right over and told her to drink. She did, too, bless her. A good sort of soul to share something like that with a child she’s never met.”
The farmer beamed at this image of his little daughter and her generosity to a stranger. The couple mounted the steps slowly, as if their many years together had taught them that hurrying inside on a beautiful autumn evening was something only fools cared to do. Before they reached the door, it swung open with such force that it slammed back against the side of the house.
“Papa!” cried a small voice, as a flaxen-haired girl, no more than six summers old, darted out.
“Here now! Have a care!” said the farmer, letting go of his wife’s hand to bend down to the child. “What’s all the hurry, Elswyth?” He glanced behind her as the door slowly creaked shut on old, tired springs. “Your sister tormenting you again?” Beside him, he heard the sweet, soft laughter of his wife.
The tiny girl clutched a rag doll, made of nothing but scraps of linen stuffed and sewn together. She pointed with her empty hand towards the house behind her. “It’s Léofwyn! She’s sick!”
Man and wife straightened up together, casting a quick look into each others’ eyes. “Sick?” said the wife.
The child nodded rapidly. “She won’t get out of bed. I touched her face, and it’s all hot and sweaty!” Her own small cheeks were pale with panic.
The farmer’s wife rushed forward, flinging the door open, hurrying inside to find her sick child. Two pairs of feet followed, clattering over the wooden floor. Behind them, the door thumped shut, and beyond it, the sun sank behind the hills, bringing nightfall to the plains.
