Days passed by, and each step taken was all the more tiresome in the mysterious woodland which appeared from nowhere. Eventually though, the forest began to thin, and the two tired companions emerged into the cool fresh air. The land seemed familiar to the injured warrior, though the ground was upturned by thousands of feet, the scar that the warband had left behind when they marched, and now it would lead them home again.
Eventually, as the sun was starting to get low, the pair came to the slow trickling waters of the Fords of the Isen. Where the water once ran clear and cold, it ran now filthy and mirky. The ash and soot from the fires that burned darkened it, and some watery streaks of red filtered past as scavengers picked upon the dead.
Despite the grimness, it gave them the chance to wash. Stains of battle were cleared from their skin and the cool water soothed their aches and pains. Resting with new robes and old keeping them warm as night settled in, barely any words were spoken between the two, though an agreement was made. The Huntsman had decided that the warlord was not to die in battle, so perhaps his life now was meant to take another path, one that she could help him find.
His head lowered and a strange face stared back up at him. It looked alike him in every way: the tangled wet hair, the unkempt beard and even every scar and bruise was in the right place, though this ‘stranger’ wore no warpaint, and the hatred in his eyes. The defeat and the Ford had washed them away from him, and replaced it with a different feeling. Shame.
Rising up from his resting place, signalling Morydd to follow, he forded the rest of the river, to begin the start of his next life, though first, it was time to see to his family.
