I should see my honor spent, as readily and as redly as blood.
And where that should fail, one should be ready to spend the blood as well. A coagulation of aches form beneath the tug of her armor on her body. A footstep like a warped tree limb makes its way across the field. Something that tastes like metal pools on the edge of her tongue, and she spits it out like a venom. Gnarled fingers grip tightly to a spear shaft as she stumbles through the shield-wall; nothing to catch her on the other side except her other steady leg. In her hand, crimson as the wounds she bore for it, a standard of the enemy stolen by one brazen and bold. One that she does not believe to be her.
Bloody but unbowed, she lets the banner slip from her fingers into its rightful place in the grasp of the Oath-Lord. Thorvall, the one who had called for the standard to be taken, raises it high into the air with a loud cry of renewed purpose. Although the sight of it should embolden braver men, Aeshaeidr limps further behind the wall of Sedgebury. Gripping in bruised fingers her spear once more, she plants her feet and prepares to face whatever foul-faced foe would press against their forces next. Though Thorvall stands tall and proud like a tower, unbroken, even his cry for strength anew falls silent across the field of corpses as a fresh pack of warriors crests the horizon.
With a hand braced against her side, putting pressure on the place where a spear had rent the flesh asunder, she falls in line with the command to fall back. Slower than the others of her company, and with the thought of a lie ready upon her lips - “I lingered for Adriwyn as she climbed down the rock - she knows with the next pulse of warm blood that she was simply in too much pain to race away with them. The archer in question surpasses her with a trained grace, her keen eyes ever on the lookout for the next unfortunate foe that would fall to her arrow, or her spear-point.
Aeshaeidr stumbles into place alongside the meager few remaining to put up a final defense within the front gates of Sedgebury. Half-keeled over she breathes, catching sight of the dark stain on her hand. Had night fallen, she would have been able to convince herself it was naught more than ash. A glimpse of fire flashes across the corner of her eye, though when she looks, she finds Alweard briefly meeting her gaze before he falls into stoic place alongside Wrecca, ever unfazed by the price demanded of battle. Alweard raises his spear without falter. Wrecca stands as a beacon of pride alongside him, the sword in his hand reflecting what little sun peers through the clouds.
She plants her feet into the dirt, knowing that without doing so, she would surely fall before the next spears snapped upon them like the teeth of the wolf. Osythe stands just ahead of her, the shield-maiden taut and ready with determination on her brow. The first of their foes break through the gates and fall upon them. Aeshaeidr, at once, feels what strength she has left slip from her, causing the act of even lifting her spear to make every vessel within her ache in protest. The clashing of sword and spear against shield is not enough to drown out the echoes of Thorvall’s cry for a final stand, with honor.
A broad swing from Heartbreaker of the Oath-Lord to her right, and the glint of Wrecca’s sword on her left brings her vision back into focus. Alweard remains standing alongside his dear friend, flickering in his quick movements as his spear fells another foe. Adriwyn is just as quick with the spear as with her bow, and few can slip past her sharp gaze. Although she knows she is called to join them, Aeshaeidr can hardly bring her bleeding body to move. Her eyes fall to the crimson fabric tied on Thorvall’s belt; bruised and battered for it, she wonders if it would have ached less to fall then when her bent fingers had grasped it free from the bull-headed pole.
She is not quite sure when she finally moves; whether it was when she saw Osythe hide behind her shield as one foe followed another, or when stampeding hooves outside the walls gave way to the sight of allies come to help them, or when Thorvall raced ahead to chase out the last of the invaders with a triumphant cheer. Aeshaeidr only knows that she moved, and her spear is bloodied once more. As the victory begins to spread through those who have survived the siege, she plants the end of her weapon deep into the dirt and leans upon it for support. Every tremble of her weakened knees sends another surge of pain through her, but it is the voices of her friends that bring her out of the wallowing.
“—go and speak with them,” she hears Adriwyn say, before the archer moves ahead to greet those who had come to their aid; among them the banners of Helm’s Deep, and the Caru-luth. Aeshaeidr raises her head and looks around; Thorvall is still grinning wildly. Osythe has stepped aside to clean her weaponry, and Alweard and Wrecca have fallen into conversation about the throes of battle and who had come away the greatest unscathed. She waits for a time, to make sense of the conversation, before she looks to the Oath-lord himself.
“The banner,” she says, holding to her spear with one hand and extending the other. “I should like to hold onto that. Though I would not have been able to claim it without the help of Adriwyn and Alweard.”
“Capturing an enemy standard is no small feat,” says Thorvall as he unties the fabric from his belt. As soon as the banner is within her hand, she ties it around her own spear so as not to misplace it. Wrecca’s voice then captures her ear as she goes back to focusing on not collapsing on the spot.
“Humbleness is ill-suited for a warrior,” says he, turning his proud gaze away from Alweard.
“Then I should say instead the scars will be worth the songs of the deed,” Aeshaeidr replies, a chuckle falling from her lips despite the pain it causes to laugh.
“That is the spirit,” the warrior appraises, though his praise is quickly stolen by concern as wounds are begun to be counted. Aeshaeidr closes her eyes, nearly giving in to exhaustion. She hears Osythe raise a question of concern, but she will see a healer in time. For now, it is enough to relish in the victory and the relief of living that comes along with it. Whispers reach her ears of next intentions - Fréasburg; Helm’s Deep; within the week - though it is the piercing cry of a raven that causes her gaze to shoot open.
Leering above the gate, perched on a still-standing wooden post, is the black bird. Almost as though it was waiting for her eyes to meet its own, the raven screeches again before spreading its foul black wings and taking up to the sky. Aeshaeidr watches the bird until she can no longer see it in the distance through smoke and haze; far from Sedgebury, she hopes it has flown. As she turns to seek out a healer in the besieged town, a calm settles over her despite the destruction. Far from Sedgebury they will fly as well.
