71 Winter 217
Road to Portsmouth
Astarael rode the horse at a fast pace at first, putting as much distance between herself and her companions as soon as she could. Otherwise, she was afraid she’d lose her nerve and turn around.
Leaving them had been harder than she thought. She’s still sure she made the right decision, but it feels like she tore out what was left of her broken heart and left it behind.
She had expected Roux’s resistance to let her go alone. It has not gone unnoticed by her that from the moment they met, he had been looking out for her. Maybe even a bit protective at times. Hell, she really would have died in that fort if he hadn’t saved her.
She would have been glad for his company on this journey. But Astarael is certain that the group needs him more than she does.
Sav’s reaction had surprised her. She had prepared for an argument, and was caught off-guard by the tears alone.
Perhaps it was her own fear of never seeing her again that had compelled her to say those parting words. A statement she had said to so very few in her life.
“I love you, Sav.”
And it was true. It was not the same kind of love she had for Talith, but it was there all the same. And just as strong.
A bond that can’t be broken by distance, or time.
She’s grateful for the return of winter’s chill—it’s provided a good excuse for keeping her hood up, her scarf wound around most of her face. The few people she’s passed haven’t shown much interest in a lone traveller. It isn’t long before she encounters a patrol, however. She has to go far off the road to avoid it, crossing an icy stream. She expects there will be many more Swans, the closer she gets to Portsmouth.
By midday, both she and the horse need a break. Astarael leaves the road, leading the horse into the deep cover of the dense underbrush, taking care to use established animal trails, lest someone see fresh tracks. She finds a suitable area, a good distance away, and sets the horse up to feed while she rests herself.
Already she misses the safety of having someone to keep watch, but she hasn’t gone complacent after all this time with companions. She moves through the motions of her old routine—hiding beneath some brush, her pack under her head. After a short time, she falls into a light slumber, her hand upon her chest, clutching her drawn sword.
She awakes at dusk, and quietly makes her way back to the road, horse in tow. Astarael plans to travel at night—most others will have made camp by now, and with her excellent night vision, hopefully she can spot anyone coming her way long before they can see or hear her.
In a pinch, she can turn herself and the horse invisible as well, but that’s quite risky to do in daylight.
Once, the darkness frightened her. How strange that it now felt like an old friend, providing safety and comfort.
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