The funeral had worn them out, and they took to the river. The oldest son had started to build a small fire, and the other brother brought a case of wine . They watched the tide ebb and flow as tadpools floated asleep below. They spoke to each other. Slowly at first. Tempered hugs, empathy and acceptance. Soon it was musings and quips. Before long a quote rang out. A brother told a story of a wild night from years ago. They gathered round the growing fire.

They reveled. The funeral as celebration. Before long, Kingsguard arrived. Fire was disallowed in the Great Wood since the Sear of 620. They made no attempt to sneak their entrance. They could make out the fire for hours, and while they knew of no enemy forces or reported robberies in these woods for decades, they assumed no threat.


Writing is hard.

and the youngest son, “This isnt a party.” His voice was gravel and ash. The flame flickered in his eyes. “Go.”

The officer stuttered and left.