Jorlin bolted upright when something grabbed her arm. She scrambled backwards, her heart racing and breathing heavy, but her hand slipped on the fresh snow and she fell flat on her back. She shielded her face with a trembling arm.
"Don't kill me!" she cried out, her voice shaking.
A few moments dragged by. It took her awhile to realize she was no longer dreaming, and she slowly lowered her arm to see Draven crouched near her bedding, looking both startled and confused. Her rapid breaths gradually slowed, and she sat up, the wound on the back of her head aching. It was obvious that he didn't know what to say, and neither did she.
"Nightmares," she tried, standing up and brushing the snow from her pants.
He stood up as well, still watching her. He shortly packed up his things and got the horses ready for departure. Feeling embarrassed, she prepared to leave.
It was the third day of their journey, but it felt like it had been much longer. During the ride, the scene of Draven killing the thieves haunted her. After an hour or two, the woods began to gradually thin, the spaces between the bare trees growing larger. They took a short break at noon, then continued until they camped for the night at the northern edge of the forest at dusk. Wide, rocky hills opened up past the last few trees.
When Jorlin had settled down on her bed roll for the night, Draven surprised her by asking, "Who do you think is the rightful side in this war?"
She put her arms behind her head as she stared at the sky. "The Decasters are rightful to the throne."
"Clovis is only in this war because if the Decasters are victorious, he'll have even more power. Lord Blair isn't much different," he replied.
"You're not wrong," Jorlin muttered, barely loud enough for him to hear. "So what's King Tobran like, if you know so much?"
"He's trying to prove himself honorable after what his father did. We've had many worse kings than him. Once you see Mauntell Manor, you'll realize that he's better than Lord Blair or Clovis could ever be as king."
"What are you going to do if the Decasters win the war?" she asked. "You'd be on the run for the rest of your life because of the traitor you are."
"I don't tend to think that far into the future," he replied. "It doesn't matter to me."
"Your own life doesn't have any meaning to you?"
"I didn't even want to become a knight," he said. "After the youngest died, my father sent me off to be a page, even though I wanted to be a blacksmith apprentice. I was the expendable son to him. I don't see why it should matter to anyone if I should die."
Jorlin didn't know what to say, so she remained quiet for a while before asking, "If the Mauntells win, what then?"
He made a noise that sounded like a chuckle. It sounded strange, as it was the first time she'd heard him come anywhere near to a laugh. "Aren't you full of questions?"
"I'm curious."
"Obviously."
"You still haven't answered my question."
"Nobody said I had to," he mumbled. "But if we are victorious, then you have nothing to worry about. Now if the Decasters win, then you better start worrying."
"That doesn't even make sense."
"Just wait," he replied, something akin to dry amusement in his tone.
Jorlin let out a frustrated sigh and let herself fall on her bed roll, her hands and feet already numb from the cold despite their campfire.
YOU ARE READING
Sides of War
Historical FictionNineteen-year-old Jorlin lives in 14th century Britain, in a country that's in the throes of a civil war. Her childhood friend gets drafted into the war, which drives her into a search for him. However, along the way, she is forced into coming to te...
