The man set a firm, steady hand on the young man’s shoulder and guided him toward the door, out into the open air where the house sounds softened behind them. Magnar walked a few paces, then stopped. He rested a hand on Willard’s shoulder, not unkind, but like a hand settling to a fencepost to see it’s still sound.

Magnar was no young man bristling for a quarrel. This was a man well into his years, shoulders built from hauling casks and splitting wood, hands broad and marked by honest work. There was grey just beginning to settle at his temples, lines at the corners of his eyes carved by sun, smoke, and long days. Someone who had lived enough life to know what it was worth and it costs.

Willard was soft in comparison. Not weak, no. Just too young by half and Magnar knew that look. He’d worn it once himself. There was a flicker of something there. old memory, half-smile, half-regret. Thought he knew everything worth knowing as any young man does. Thought himself grown. Thought he understood what it meant to set his heart on something and call it love. He knew better now. Life had seen to that. Turns out he didn’t knew much of anything till he met his husband six years ago. That’s when it settled proper. Before that… it was all noise and fire and thinking too much of feelings that hadn’t earned their keep.

“I’m not a fool, lad,” Magnar said, no anger in it. “I’ve known my sister all her days. And I’ve seen lads come round before, thinking they’ve caught hold of something grand. Hearts do that. They run ahead of the rest of you." A small sigh left him. His hand tightened, just a touch, on Willard’s shoulder.

“If you can’t stand in a warm house, with good folk and honest bread, and speak plain about what she is to you.” A faint shake of his head. "Not a word of what you’ve been to her. Well, that tells me enough.”

He folded his arms then, but firm as oak.
“So here’s how it stands,” Magnar said. "You ride on from here now.”

“And whatever it is you think you and Venla have…” He gave a small shake of his head, more weary than harsh. “Best you let that go.”

A small pause.

“Not because I’m saying so,” he added. “But because a man who can’t stand up and speak honest about his feelings for a woman, in front of the folk who raised her…” Willard couldn’t even name it, just now. Not out loud. Not where it mattered.

The river kept on murmuring. The evening air carrying the malt smoke and the faint sweet of damp earth. The yard sat easy in the moonlight. Nothing hurried there.

“Then it’s not much of a thing to be holding onto, is it?”


“You’re a courteous lad,” Saara said simply. "Don’t let folk grind it out of you on the road.” She looked at the journal and stylus, but the door opening called for her attention.

“Right.” Magnar said, plain as a nail driven home, when he walked inside. “That’s that then.”

“I’ll be writing that letter,” he said simply, grabbing the journal and pen on the table.

"Venla,
You’re to come home when you can. I’ll be coming for you myself by the next new Sovereign if I’ve not heard proper before then. It’s time you were back where you belong. "

Magnar signed it and pushed it back to Hector.

"Your Knight Brother will be waiting for you in town. Finish your meal.” he added, softer now. “Then be on your way, Syr” He stepped back, giving the knight space.
 
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The young knight bore no ill will towards Magnar, despite the momentary anger the older man's words elicited in him. It felt like hardly any time had passed since the Thiels had invited them into their home, and already the eldest son knew enough to pass judgement. To condemn a future that may yet come to pass, if only his own experiences had not tempered the views which he now wielded against Willard like a blade.

Too young to understand matters of the heart and the way it wends, but old enough to kill for a cause that would outlive him.

Too cowardly to confess something they already knew, yet brave enough to risk his life and standing for a complete stranger.

Perspective was key to many a lock. Perspective was what set them against each other now, though Willard had enough sense to realise Magnar only wanted what was best for Venla. The dawnling did, too. And yet neither of them possessed an answer to the conundrum Venla found herself at the center of.

Even so, Willard felt the chance to explain properly had slipped him by. Gone with the wind, and the implications of dishonesty Magnar had so cruelly cast his way. But then he wasn't wrong. A lie was still a lie, even if the intentions behind it were pure.

To protect someone they both cared about in their own ways.

Fucking Drachenberg, the knight smiled wanly as Magnar left him to his thoughts. Silvery light lit his path to where the horses were tethered. The Beloved and the Wayfarer rested in the sky above, the only witnesses to the turmoil raging inside the young knight's mind. If not for the comforting presence of Hellion, he might have unravelled right then and there.

But silence had ever been his way, and so he remained quiet as he led his mount from the brewery yard and on down to the road leading out of the village. It was there he waited, head tilted back to face the stars whilst Hellion picked at the grass along the verge.

He did not know how long he stayed there, waiting on the sky to change. He'd lost track by the time he heard hooves on the road behind him.

'He has no idea,' the dawnling's voice was thick with an emotion he had no idea how to show. 'Neither of them do. About how much trouble Venla's in.' Magnar had only been half-right in his assumptions. Whatever fledgling romance he sought to nurture with the man's sister was only part of the story.

Turning, Willard looked to Hector, unsure of how to express his hurt, though he reckoned he wore it poorly.

'I'm sorry... Sorry you had to be a part of-... of whatever that was,' the knight spoke softly, averting his gaze.
 
Hector's eyes fell to his book. Open and pushed before him. He let the words sink in a long and quiet moment that let the fire crackles hiss and sing their little flameborne laughs.

"I will see that your sister receives your words, Master Magnar," he said calm as the night air. Took up his stylus in one hand, turned the page with the other. "But my offer still stands, to the Mistress Thiel," he spoke clear and sure. Eyes to the page.

He would not stand in defiance, when so clear the twine of his brother's chords had been wound by... whatever had transpired here.

"My silver point is yours to give words to, Saara," he said soft enough to breeze away, should Magnar remain firm in his shooing, or should Saara side with her son's pride. But Hector would not deny a mother her own words.

He would wait. Long enough to be certain. And should the Matriarch of the Thiel home give him words to scribe, would write them without hesitation. Even ask for her to mark. Give his word as Knight, that her daughter would receive her message.

If, she gave him words to scribe.

"He has no idea... about how much trouble Venla's in."

​
Something worked itself across Hector's brow. Lips pulled lopsided. Thumped him on the shoulder. "Oh, come now, Syr Billard," Hector went on, lighter than he felt. Squeezed his brother's shoulder. "You've not an idea yourself," he teased, shook his head. "Nor do I, not really," let his hand slip. He reached the horses, and loosed their ties. "But the magicks come to us as they do," he said with a steadiness to him as he set unto his saddle. "And even when trained, and practiced," Settled into his seat, and affixed his wide brim hat. "There is no telling when it might betray you," he reminded his sworn brother, as much as himself.

Could still feel the hot iron of his bones, cooking between his flesh as all of Sumu seemed to burn.

"She is in the care of the Order, there is no lie in that." waited for Willard to mount up. "What trouble she finds herself in, well, we can do not but trust that she will see it through, and that our betters help her see it through,"

The alternative. His waking mind had no desire to consider it.
 
A nod. 'Not a fuckin' clue,' he smiled thinly, trying to muster up some levity, as his half-eared brother was wont to do when the mood turned sour. 'You're right, of course, you're right. Even so, I cannot help but worry.' Trust was not something the dawnling handed out willy-nilly. The Pursuants and Masters of the Order were akin to parents, or older siblings at the very least.

They had his trust, though he had done little to reinforce their trust in him as of late.

'She'll be okay,' Willard told himself, pressing his palm against Hellion as the big bay nudged him in the chest, sensing his concern. 'I just... Well. I guess I feel... useless? Helpless?' The dawnling's brow furrowed as he turned in on himself. Nevermind.

Clambering into his saddle, Willard settled in a swish of mail, limbs loose, feet finding stirrups with the ease of years.

The moons poured their light onto the world below, showing them the way forward. Willard doubted they would catch the others before daybreak. And there was no point risking the horses by galivanting off into the night like a couple of Knights-Errant from one of Caelia's books. Reaching down to his side, Willard lifted a lantern into frame, the device clattering as he extended it towards Hector, a small smile on his face.

'Spot us a flame, Sunkiller,' he said, spying the spark of recollection in his brother's eye. 'Trust in yourself as I do, you.'
 
Hector said little in reply to Willard's affirmations in regards to Hector's correctness. Using his legs, Hector guided his roan mare to the trail.

"We are but mortals bound to our coils, Willard," he sounded quiet. "We do what we can, and the rest," he led his horse on into the night. "Well, we figure it out best we can, as we can," Stopped before trail, and rounded about to regard his sworn brother. Watched him raise the lantern up.

"Spot us a flame, Sunkiller..."
​
What softness he tendered for his brother's plight seemed to die the more then. Brows scrunched. Lips pressed to grim line. He removed one glove and snapped his fingers to summon the spark of flame.

The lantern wick whooshed to life. "Don't call me that," he said flat as an anvil. Worked leather back over his digits, and in a measured clip clop clatter, set to the trail once more.
 
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