Irwfrith

She could still hear the laughter in her ears. It was a joke, right; a jest seeping truth, though.

Tidhelm is struggling for some sleep at her feet, all wrapped up in furs and rope, the gagging cloth still tugged in his mouth. He seems harmless for now, perhaps she can dare a short walk around the camp. She needs to be alone for a while.

Face the truth, Melowen. You can do it. You must do it.

Melowen tosses aside the parchment and quill, disappointed with herself.

Stupid, stupid girl.

She never felt the urge to tell the tale in writing, no matter how thrilling or epic was the battle she fought. And now? Feeling compelled to write poetry... no, seriously, poetry? Melowen?

Irwfrith stood next to the meadhall and inspected his horse which seemed to be heavy weighted down by the equipment he had placed on it. He couldn't help to find pity for the horse, for it was carrying on provisions and equipment for three persons.