[ The events of this story take place months before the present, when the Oathsworn were stationed at Helm’s Deep in the autumn. ]
Though Thorvall had expressed a dislike for heights, Alweard didn’t particularly mind the view. From the ramparts of the Hornburg, the green gorge stretched out below him, untouched by frost and unchanged over the twenty years since he had first seen it. The sky above was painted with the colors of a dancing flame, bathing the valley in golden light. He would have wanted to paint the green landscape before him save for a single spot, dark as a crow’s wing, in the grass—a woman’s cloak.
Brushing past soldiers at their watch, hauberks gleaming in the last light of day, Alweard ran down the stairs and wound his way through the courtyard. The gates were still open; her figure stood reticent in the doorway. That same golden light that bathed miles of field and forest below refused to touch her. “She’s a friend of mine,” he said, breathless; one of the guards tilted his head in return. “And the Oathlord’s,” he lied; they allowed his cousin passage nonetheless. Leading her horse by the reins, she strode past them without so much as a polite nod or a smile.
“You’ve gotten thinner, Elfwyrd. Alruna said his name the same way as he wrote it, before it was colored with Gwenlhian’s half-wealish drawl many years ago, before it became the name he couldn’t let go of.” “Have you been eating?
“I was about to say the reverse of you,” he murmured; she answered him with a glare.
“Let us speak privately, cousin. Show me where we might talk.” Beneath the billow of her cloak, she carried her distaff in the open; pages and servants averted their eyes as they shuffled by.
With a resigned sigh, Alweard led her to the stables and then to a quiet corner of the courtyard. The table there reeked with the honeyed scent of spilled mead that had never quite been scrubbed away. “What brings you to the Hornburg?”
“A bird told me,” she chimed. “I received your letter, in which you said you were … staying below the Thrihyrne. For quite some time, it seemed.” As she smiled, her eyes creased at the corners as if she were laughing at something he didn’t know. In choosing her words carefully, she was enjoying herself too much. “All I had to do then was follow the Oathlord’s forces through the Westfold.”
“Always watching over me, I see,” he groaned. “Then I presume you wish to make yourself useful.” There was no bitterness in his voice, only the ragged heave of his breath.
“Any fool can make herself useful. Now, a wise woman - she will lend a hand only after she knows why for.” She toyed with the strings of amber beads that hung between the brooches pinning her dress. “Now, most men who come to me ask for help with their crops. Perhaps they think their lands blighted, or their sheep cursed, or they want a salve for a broken arm. But you are a man of letters, cousin. You would measure every tree in Fangorn if you didn’t know to fear the black forest. I thought you didn’t believe in ‘country superstitions’.” Her smile was all teeth as she watched him squirm, feeling every bit a viper caught in a hawk’s talons. “You must be desperate if you’re turning to a witch.”
“I am not desperate!”
“Elfwyrd. You managed to fool them all; now your pride has convinced you that you can fool me. It doesn’t take a witch to see how weak you have become. Tell me what ails you.”
Slumping in his seat, he rested his head in his hands. “It advanced upon me slowly. For months I have hardly been able to eat; no food has any taste to me. And now I can hardly sleep. Instead, I lie awake, staring at the darkened sky. The moon stares back, as if he knows my secrets. Each night, I thought always of—”
“For a clever boy, you have made quite the fool of yourself.”
“Well, if you came here just to insult me, you could have said so less cryptically,” he grumbled.
“Do you not see it, Elfwyrd?” She tilted her head, grinning from ear to ear. “You are in love.”
Alweard nearly choked on his breath. “Surely not.” When she didn’t stop smiling, he felt the blood drain from his face. “I am not that sort of man, Alruna. You know me well enough. I am no blushing youth writing poems for someone two villages away - no, I am too old for this.”
“Be free to argue with me, cousin,” she said. “But argue not with your heart, for you will likely lose.”
“Surely you can help me. You cured me before.” It was over fifteen years ago, but he remembered it still: his head spinning as he entered her house, breathing in the heady scent of smoke and herbs, the paste of leaves and seeds which he still couldn’t name, the pain. The medicine had been as bitter as his relief had been sweet.
“Indeed I did.” Alruna’s expression softened, face briefly lined with the weight of her years as she reached out and took his hand in hers. “But you and I both know that medicine cured something else. I can brew no tincture for ailments of the heart."
