‎⠀

⠀⠀⠀    his mind drifted back to their earlier argument. he had only meant to ask because of the burden placed upon him by her deceased husband, to learn whether she understood the lengths her husband had gone to in striking his bargain. it had been a costly agreement, one paid for in silence and blood, charging him with her protection, with the safety of her children, and with the keeping of their secrecy. such discretion was expected of men like him, even from their own blood. still, if there was one thing he understood now, it was that he would have done the same had he stood in the reaper’s place.      hence why he had asked the woman if she had been bound. it had been no accusation, only preparation. a worst case weighed against a kingdom in collapse, a dead king, and a country rotting from plague and fear. duty had taught him to assume the cruel outcome first, even when his heart resisted it.

⠀⠀⠀    the black death had stripped the countryside bare, leaving fields unploughed, hearths cold, and doors unbarred to silence.      håkon tied the reins of the horse to an ash tree near the cottage, its roots splitting old field stones. he spent the next three hours going to and fro, moving with the efficiency of a man used to war and scarcity. he checked the outbuildings, cleared rot from the hearth, and fetched water from a nearby burn. what food he had was simple but precious.               half the day had passed when he finally returned at nightfall with several key items gathered from what little trade still survived. there was salted meat wrapped in linen, cured for travel as was custom, hard as oak but sustaining. oat bannocks wrapped in cloth. a small skin of ale. a fresh set of woollen clothes, coarse but clean, and a pouch of dried herbs for fever and wounds, yarrow and garlic among them.
            
            ⠀⠀⠀    the old house felt warmer upon his return, the fire still burning hot in the hearth, peat and kindling glowing red beneath ash. he paused at the threshold, slipping a glance around for the woman. for a moment, he listened, honing in on the forest beyond the walls. wind through pine. the distant cry of a bird settling for night. when his senses stretched too far, håkon snapped out of the haze upon catching the sound of her breathing. the steady rhythm of a heartbeat. her scent, faint but familiar, carried on smoke and wool.

⠀⠀⠀   håkon pulled the reins at once with a tight grip. the horse shifted beneath him, leather creaking, iron rings chiming softly as it responded to his tug. tension lingered between them, thick as peat smoke, curling low across the distant moorland they had crossed for three days straight. the road behind them was little more than packed earth and stone, churned by hooves and carts long gone.      they had ridden through the night with little rest, stopping only to water the horse at burns and shallow streams. exhaustion weighed heavy in his bones, a dull ache beneath mail and wool, yet he knew they were all equally as famished. hunger was a quiet enemy, one learned to ignore until it hollowed the gut.
            
            ⠀⠀⠀   he reached for the woman after her answer, still not at ease.         he knew she’d struggle. with the strength of ten men, he was not surprised she was a fighter, nor that grief had sharpened her edge. but he had not been sent to hold her prisoner, nor to be her cage. håkon set her down, not missing the strain beneath her eyes, nor the tears she thought she could hide beneath stubborn silence. despite all the fire she carried, he noted it plainly as he dropped his hands at once, registering the warmth of her body, and how frail she had become in merely a two weeks’ journey. too little food. too much fear. grief eating faster than time ever could.       turning on his heel, he did not beckon her to follow. giving space was the only mercy he could allow himself. sometimes distance eased tension better than words. the warrior led the way toward the old house overlooking the land. it sat at the crown of a low hill, half-hidden by gorse and wind-bent hawthorn, its stone walls darkened by rain and age. a croft, once lived in by a tenant family, with a byre attached and a roof of sod and timber. the walls were thick, dry-laid stone, still firm despite the sagging thatch. it had been abandoned recently, like so many others.

DR.[GRIER]
                       ⠀⌁
            
            ⠀⠀⠀&   PRIESTESS  -  PHYSICIAN,
            ⠀⠀⠀⠀[ known ]   ⌁⠀⠀    ݁   for  her
            ⠀⠀⠀power  balance  between  the
            ⠀the  physical  &  the  supernatural.