Faerhild laid on a bed once owned by someone else. The pain prevented her from actually falling asleep, aside for the moments when the fever stole her consciousness. However this was not one of those blissful moments.
No. She laid awake, even if her eyes were shut in her plan of pretending sleep. She did not wish to talk with the man who laid wounded on the bed next to her.
No. He had promised her a band of warriors yet had only brought four men. Whom along with those of her choosing - he had lead to certain death. Of six one had died and three were severely wounded. Only two were standing. So it was beyond her comprehension when he expressed discontent toward her decision to send the one who was still capable of riding to fetch a healer.
They had lost. Was he mad? Blinded by pride? The man he was accused to be? Did he not care about the wounds of his fellow Men?
She did not wish to know. The pain grew darker and she squeezed her eyes shut tighter, locking her teeth fiercely against one another.
She had broken every promise she had made. To Thrymm, to their Reeve, to her brother. And now she was dying alone and violated, like he had predicted some years ago.
The woman flicked her eyes open abruptly, staring wildly up at the ceiling which trembled in the embrace of fierce winter winds. She would not die. Not like this. Not next to this man.
She would live.
To face the consequences of her crimes.
It is cowardly to die unpunished.
