Until Morning

The militiaman put a hand on his sword. My sister put hers on the bandage. ‘Take him now and he’ll die on the road.’ No one spoke. The stove wasn’t drawing properly. I opened the window a crack and hated myself for having nothing wiser to do.

They agreed on morning. I set out three plates and kept a cup of soup for myself. We ate like people who happened to have sheltered in the same kitchen, avoiding every word that might have changed that.

Later, Joren spoke of a building site in Stormwind, and a father who had never received the wages he was owed. The militiaman replied that his brother had been attacked on a road in Westfall. Both looked at the red cloth. It lay between the bread and a bowl of bloody water.

By morning, Joren could stand. The militiaman bound his uninjured hand, not both. Before leaving, the boy asked for his cloth. ‘What you do with it is your decision,’ my sister said, handing it to him. He put it in his pocket rather than around his neck. I don’t know whether that meant anything.

We never learned what became of him. A letter or a return would have made a better ending to this story. There was only the kitchen table we scrubbed clean, and the lantern in the window. Since that night, we leave it burning until morning. In Westfall, a light is sometimes the only answer a farm has left to give.