Tucked into a shadow behind the meadhall, Alweard was bending over a basin. He had surmised that, after the long journey across the Isen, his companions would neither think to find him there nor muster the energy to go searching in the first place. Now purple dusk was descending over Sedgebury; the air, once buzzing with river-town conversation, was still and silent. Yet the low light was a comfort now, for the surface of the water before him bore only the barest trace of his reflection.
As he dipped his hands into the water, the chill that stung his fingertips was colder still compared to the feverish heat which blazed between his ribs. The burning was all-too-familiar now, having followed him for many years, but he had hoped it would have subsided in his recent convalescence. Instead it had resurged in the burned remains of their camp west of the Isen, when he had pulled Cwylmláf out from beneath the crumbling debris which Wrecca had held aside. Hours had passed only for the pain to linger on. How apt, he thought to himself, that my body burns alongside my heart. Through his months of silence, love had grown like a choking vine—heedless of the frost that should have withered it long ago—and he could never speak it aloud and thus end its power over him.
Alweard procured a rag and soaked in the water. Osythe would have steeped it with herbs, he mused. Yet he had none and would have to make do with what little he could find, for his privacy was worth more than proper procedure. Before he lifted the hem of his tunic, he looked left and right and over his shoulder; the cold air nipped at his belly as he pressed it to his ribs. His breaths came short and ragged like the heaving of a fish torn from the river as he scrubbed at the old arrow-wound. It had once ached, the pain even worse when he and Osythe had stayed in frigid Tûr Morva under names that were not their own, but now he could hardly feel the neat trace of a burn. Tracing the brief scar with his fingers, he recalled Osythe’s words: "We should not let it sit for so long going forward, or it will begin to rot.” From what he could see in the dark, it had grown paler over the weeks. If I live to be an old man like Thorvall, perhaps I shall have worse aches and pains.
The moon was rising now, limning the whole town in silver, and Alweard caught a glimpse of his reflection in the surface of the basin. The face that stared back was not so hollow-cheeked and sunken-eyed as he had become used to; his usual hue was beginning to return. Strands of red-gold shone through the dark dye that had faded from his hair in uneven streaks. Once black, it had yielded to stripes of chestnut brown intermixed with his original strawberry blond. Alweard leaned forth to get a better look at himself only for the chilly breeze to ripple the surface of the water like a crumpled strip of silk, shattering his reflection. With a last gasp of breath, he dipped his head beneath the water.
While the basin was no lake, all was quiet beneath the water’s surface. All the world seemed slower; even his heartbeat was distant, with the sluggish solemnity of a war-drum in the White Mountains. Then he breached the surface of the bath, his wet hair lashing heavily on his shoulders. Dark rivulets of dye ran down his cheeks and neck, threatening to bleed onto his tunic. He paused to take another labored breath before soaking his head again, combing his fingers through hanks of hair heavy with water until the color no longer stained his hands.
When he finally rose to his feet, his hair shone red-gold in the moonlight, bereft of even the slightest dark trace. The cold had colored his cheeks and his trembling fingers. His eyes were wetter, but not from the bath; he could taste a salty trickle at the corner of his mouth. He took one last look at the moonlit surface of the basin before overturning it with a sigh. Cold water spilled over the stones, darkening the soil until it shone black as blood in the night.
Clutching his cloak around himself with one arm, he tucked the empty basin under the other and carried it back to its original place beneath the eaves of the meadhall.
