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"𝙁𝙖𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧!" 𝘼𝙣𝙜𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙖𝙙 𝙚𝙭𝙘𝙞𝙩𝙚𝙙𝙡𝙮 𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙚𝙙 𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙨𝙚, bounding over to the group of men returning home.
Most rode on horseback, upon their noble mounts, swords attached to the saddles at an easy reach. Angharad stopped, counting faces, counting horses.
"Father?" She whispered this time, frowning as tears pooled in her emerald eyes. She saw Mikael Mikaelson dismounting from his strong, bay stallion. Esther was there to happily greet her husband, as were the other women.
"Mum!" Angharad yelled, rushing back into the longhouse, door banging as she practically pushed it off it's hinges. "Mother!"
Ingrid sat upright from the cot in which she had been laid. "Annie, sweetie, what's the matter?" Her mother's voice was harsh and strained, as was her face. She looked old, far older than her years.
"Father..he, he has not returned from battle. I fear something dreadful has happened." Angharad's knees felt weak, so she gripped the corner of her mother's rocking chair.
Throwing the blankets off herself now, despite her infliction and the hideous pain that thrummed her head, Ingrid rose to her feet. Angharad rushed forwards now, placing a hand on her mother's back and helping to guide the frail women outside.
"Where is my husband?" Ingrid's voice shook, as she addressed the men, most of whom had dismounted now, handing their mounts to their children to be put away for some much needed hay and water.
"Ingrid, dear, come. Let me make you some tea. Chamomile perhaps?" Esther Mikaelson was there in a heartbeat. She nodded at Angharad, a small but sad smile laced her lips, as she guided Ingrid away.
Angharad looked up now, sensing eyes upon her. The blonde was shocked to see the harsh outlines of Esther's husband, Mikael, starring back at her. Although, the man didn't seem quite as imposing as usual.
Perhaps she had grown since the men had left on their battles, or perhaps it was the fact his blue eyes were soft with sadness, and a kindness Angharad had never seen in them before. She swallowed, feeling her heart drop to the pit of her stomach.
"My father..?" She questioned, her voice small and almost as frail as her mother's as she fought back the tears that threatened to escape.
Mikael nodded solemnly, silently admitting the truth to the girl before him. He couldn't imagine going away to fight, promising his own daughter he'd be home, to never return. Mikael was once again reminded of his sweet Freya, who had died from plague whilst he'd been away fighting.
