Ceawlin watched the furbolgs leave, not bothering to hide the smile on his face at the elder's comment. Once the door had shut behind them he hunkered down next to the girl, who slept on with the fingers of one hand wrapped around the thumb and pushed against her face. The furbolgs' treatment of her hadn't been that harsh, he thought, but to have been thrown in a dark hole for several hours as well must have been more than her nerves could stand. Probably all she needed was to sleep it off.

He pulled one of the mats closer to her and bent down to roll her over onto it. No sooner had he put his hands under her than she reached up and clawed at him, leaving lines of fire across his bare chest.

"Don't leave me!" she gasped, as if breaking the surface of deep water dreams. Her wide eyes searched the room without seeing him, her mind lost in a terrifying inner world.

"I'm right here," he said as pushed her down on the mat. "I'm not going anywhere." She started shivering again and he covered her with a blanket, tucking it tightly around her. Tears ran down her face from behind closed eyes and she began to whisper in a language he didn't understand, the sounds laced with pain. At the touch of his hand on her shoulder, she sighed and slipped back into sleep.

Her scratches had left painful welts and some had places that were bleeding sluggishly. She had certainly washed her hands enough times but he decided to look through her medicine kit for something to put on the scrapes just the same. Each flask had been carefully labeled and even as tired as she had been her things were neatly stacked in her bags. The only problem was that he couldn't decipher her writing. It would take him hours to suss out what each vial contained. The only thing he was certain of was the soap and he washed up with it, grateful that it was something that looked and smelled the same no matter who made it.

Once his wounds were cleaned and dried, he removed the rest of his armor and then ground out one of the torches. He picked up the other blanket and settled down beside the girl, careful not to touch her. The gods willing, they would both get enough rest, he prayed.

The flames on the walls roared but the wooden church was not consumed. The pool of blood under the dead man did not darken nor did it sink into the stone floor. At least the liquid had stopped spreading towards him as if to gift him with the reflections of the conflagration dancing on its surface. He stared out into the darkness beyond the building's threshold, caught between the orders he had been given and the wrongness of those commands as if his soul was in a vise.

The man had seemed a friendly sort for a human, certainly glad to share his sad story of a moment's weakness on the battlefield with a stranger; no matter that their kinds were sworn enemies. He had given his name as Aurius and while he related that he felt his actions had damned him, he was hopeful of a chance to redeem himself. It was not until Ceawlin had taken out the vial in his pocket and poured out the shimmering black liquid it contained to extinguish the eternal flame in the church's fount that the other man had attacked. The roof had exploded into flames above their heads as they had fought but Ceawlin had proved to be the stronger.

There was movement in the darkness of the church's doorway and something huge stepped over the threshold, covered in swirling, crackling flames. As the thing cooled he could see that it had the shape of a horse, with skin the color of dead black ashes and eyes that were pits of fire. He made no move to escape. If it was there to take his soul as punishment for desecrating the shrine, then it was only fitting.

As demon and man studied each other, a golden light began to shine behind Ceawlin, brightening until the flames around them were lost in the glow. The demon-horse's head reddened and the tips of its mane caught fire again. It reared, screaming in rage, and then backed out of the chapel as Ceawlin turned to see that the source of the light was the return of the eternal flame …

… while a pot sitting beside it gave off curls of steam. He bolted upright, startled and confused, then realized he was staring at the small fire in the room he shared with the human female. After rubbing his eyes to clear the effects of the dream, he noticed she had found another hat to wear, a second best one he guessed from its battered state. She had pulled it down so low he couldn't see her eyes. The bottom half of her face was covered with a dark cloth and she sat hunched near the fire, a blanket clenched tightly around her. She turned away as if unable to bear his gaze.

"Bad dreams?" she said as she stirred the contents of the pot. Whatever it was, it smelled delicious.

Ceawlin sat down again on the mat and pushed his hair back with both hands. From that moment in the church he had sworn to never use the Light, no matter the reason. Not when his first use of it had begun with perverting its virtues. "Have you ever been to Stratholme?"

"That cursed place? No. There's nothing worth stealing there," she said, one shoulder lifting in a quick shrug. "I've fixed something to eat and no, it hasn't been poisoned." She held out a small bowl to him and as he stood and took a step closer to take it, she looked down at the ground and her hand trembled.

He looked in askance at the white porridge-like substance. It did smell good enough to set his stomach to growling. The first taste of it in his mouth made the back of his throat ache with pleasure. "This is fantastic," he finally managed to say between bites.

"Heh. Potions, poisons and food – it's all in the cooking," she said, a touch of humor lightening her voice.

He looked up from stuffing his face to smile at her but she had already turned away to stow the utensils back in her bag.