The hills and trees cover our view of the town and I am glad for it. We have found shelter in between the wall of a cliff and the slope of a hill, just to the south-east of the town. Young Ned is anxiously walking around from one side of our small camp to the other; he wants to do something but cannot for lack of strength and skill. Master Wheatley is sat quietly some little way off where we are. Our Cal keeps watch, a little way to the other side.

We huddle together as close as two babes in the same belly. The need is unspoken. We are Men - and whatever happened today, whatever force directed the waters - was not. We are Men, and for all our valour and our shining swords, we know when to find a fortress to shelter us from the unknown. A refuge of reality from which we can stare out at the world when it twists into an unknown shape around us. Here, no stone, nothing made by the hands of Men to seek a refuge in. Flesh then must do, and the solidity of bone, the regular familiar in and out of breathing to remind us that there is reality.