He had barely slipped over the wall when he saw her. In the long shadows of evening, it was easy to hide; the guards were changing shifts and the bleary-eyed afternoon watch stood no chance of finding his silhouette in the shade. Yet her eyes cut through the gloaming to meet his, the set of her mouth drawn tight and thin.
Alweard tugged at the edge of his hood, unsure of what to do with his hands. “Cousin! How fortunate I am to see you again. You look the part of a Lady.”
“You dare to show your face here?” The lines of a frown marred her smooth brow, cold blue eyes flashing. Her brooches seemed new, chambers of gold wire framing blood-red garnet; he had never planned to live to see the day when his cousin’s hair was neatly braided and her skirts unstained and untorn. “What if the Thane sees you - what of Arald?”
“Alruna …” he began, voice trailing off tentatively as he searched for any words which might soothe her. “I - I only meant to see Willowslade again. To look at the hall. It has been long … ”
“Then it has not been long enough,” she hissed, head swiveling to peer back over her shoulder. None of the guards had seen him yet. Rushing forth, she grabbed his forearm roughly, tugging him under the eaves of the mead hall. Never since their childhood had soft palms pinched such a bruise. “What will you say to him? He barely deigned to look upon me as his niece. What makes you think he will -”
“I know.” Alweard felt his chest deflate with a shudder of defeat, shoulders trembling beneath the leather of his jerkin. He winced at the persistent ache of his ribs, throbbing in his side, and braced himself against the wall of the mead-hall. “I know, Alruna. I’ll make myself scarce.” He saw the corners of her lips twitch, maybe in a sympathetic smile, but with his vision blurring with pain he couldn’t know for certain.
As he backed toward the wall, his gaze floated up the winding paths of Willowslade, the houses shaded by dry boughs rustling in the first breezes of spring. His eyes made their way over new fences repaired since his childhood, cobbled a little more worn than before, meandering up toward a house with a red door, still painted the same color as when he had called it home.
Grimacing with pain, Alweard slipped through the one gate still left unguarded, cursing himself for hesitating. As he loped over toward the trees, striding toward the blurred silhouette of his horse tied to a trunk, he never even thought to look back.
