Forochel

I wake just after dawn to a clear sky. The weather has held good since he left yesterday. I busy myself, using precious thread to mend a rent in my shirt. As I sew I glance up from time to time expecting to see Amlarad walking to the fire, some white-furred creature in his grasp, its paws and small ears already beginning to freeze as the warmth seeps from it.

As morning becomes afternoon, he does not come.

Writing for my lord Steward is a discipline instilled within me. I take the opportunity to do so with Amlarad out to hunt - 'and hunt what?' I asked him, 'I have seen little of beast or bird this far north'. But if any can find some trail, a hidden creature, it is him.

We have lost so much, my family and my people. How is it that I journey to the end of the world, and from a man of silence hear the story of my own name?

Did my grandfather have some premonition? Did he, searching the half-remembered tales he heard as a child, taste the future as he whispered possible names for his first grand-daughter? Olwing ... named for some distant queen, her life and deeds lost to time...

I recall only one word. 'Folly'.

Did he speak other than that? I cannot remember. We stood on the crest of the pass, looking once more down towards the great rift in tthe ice, the weather finally clear enough for us to attempt the icewall. My heart heavy but determined as we looked out over that vast white field. His word a numbing truth, and a goad to action. What else is there? What does one do when one doubts one's lord? The oath itself must suffice, duty when love is breaking.

The cold is inside me now. Though I wear the beautiful cloak he gifted to me, I am a numb thing. An icemaiden. The night is old, moves its weary way to its inevitable end. I have no pity for it and no interest.

He is gone to his own solitude and I am encased in mine. I tried to sleep, a pain in my chest awoke me, an icicle as sharp as a betrayal. I see it now he is gone, what I have done. The first steps of the oathbreaker. I am horrified at myself, look at my own hands writing, loathing them as they move and record my own folly.

Ease returns. We walked out northwards to the ice wall with the misunderstandings fresh between us. We came back to the hearth with them set aside.

There is a space to the right of me that is his. The furs keep his great shape, a hollowing pressed into the lie of each hair. I run my hand lightly over that cold form as he stands brooding over the quiet valley.

My body is heavy and languid, yesterday's journey settled in my limbs. I am careful not to spill ink on the furs, but I am too content in my warmth to move. We scouted the northern route from here towards the ice wall. I would know what I face before we move on properly.