Blaecwyn read the letter again, an irritable growl escaping her lips. She hated letters at the best of times; they always meant that something was needed of her. This one was no exception. One of her lads, it seemed, had heard ill-tidings from the north and whilst this was hardly unusual, this particular news was grim indeed. They were needed, he had written, all of them.
She would go. She had to go. It was her duty to do so and her place as the leader of her group to be there with them whenever they entered battle. It did not sit well with her on this occasion, however. She had come no closer to finding the people who had hurt her son and had no wish to leave him, or this unfinished business.
Much as it pained her to leave Micaiah at such a time, much as it grated on her nerves to leave the wrongs done to him unavenged, much as it irked her to depart when she had barely seen hide or hair of her boy, still she knew that she could not turn her blind eye to this summons.
The oaths she had given in her younger years to always ride to the protection of others, always do the right thing and never turn her back on a person in need were binding things. She could not break them now. She could not lose that which she held dear: her honour.
With a heavy heart she laid the missive aside. It did not take her long to draft two letters, one to her son and the other to her lover, nor to encase herself in her protective metal armour. It did not take long to retrieve her weaponry, her sheild and saddle her horse. In fact, it took far less time than she would have liked to leave Pemberth behind.
Reluctantly, she rode onwards, stopping briefly at the farms of her men to let them know that it was time to ride once more. To her satisfaction each one had also recieved a similar letter and, knowing their leader well, had readied themselves for her arrival.
So began the journey toward Trestlebridge, each man with whom she had fought countless times coming to join her until together they marched along the Greenway in a loose column. Each face grim, each man silent.
Under normal circumstances they would be laughing and joking as they rode toward their fate, eager to make the most of the company of their brothers-in-arms and the last vestige of peaceful sanity before the hectic chaos of battle took from them their joy, plunging them instead into a nightmare world of blood and danger. This time, however, was different.
Perhaps they thought that they would not return to their loved ones this time, or perhaps they sensed their leaders mood and were trying to be respectful of it. Blaecwyn knew not either way, but their silence was disconcerting. It should not be this way, she knew, for out there any breath could be their last. Better that they enjoy themselves now than find they have no more opportunities to do so on future days. She looked over her shoulder to the men but found no smiles forthcoming. It was up to her then.
"This time we got ourselves a new recruit," she called back to them, forcing some levity into her gruff voice. "Untested, untried and don't look to be much."
"Oh yeah?" Thomal, or as he was affectionately known by the rest of the group Muggsy, spoke up. "What've you nicknamed this one, then?"
"Princess."
That elicted a round of laughter. They all knew Blaecwyn's penchant for nicknaming those who rode with her. They liked that she did. It gave them a sense of closeness, belonging, and had long since turned this small group of warriors into a tight-knit family. Of course, they also knew her preference for nicknaming men who had annoyed her after women as an insult.
"What'd he do to deserve that?" Arorn or, as he was known here, Chops, asked with a chuckle.
"Oh, you'll see," Blaecwyn replied with a wolfish grin.
