Bevil kicks at a scorched plank, then wrenches it away from the rest of the charred barn wall. The world ended two nights ago, or at least it feels that way. But all around him, people are picking themselves up and carrying on, in true West Harbor form. Except, of course, for the ones that didn't get back up.
It just won't stick in his mind. Over and over, he finds himself planning to take a break from working on the barn, to go down by the stream and catch her practicing spells there. That's when he remembers. The strange mage. Magic flicking back and forth, quick as thought. Amie falling. All of it over and done with, before he even moves to stop it.
He moves now, away from the burnt wreckage of the barn, away from the burnt wreckage of the village. His mother watches him go, face creased with worry. But she can't leave the other children alone right now to follow him. He escapes.
He follows the main path out of the village - the one that Summer took, though he doesn't plan to go as far. Simply away is enough for him. Once - what feels like a hundred years ago - he, Amie and Summer planned to travel this path and have adventures. But Bevil doesn't want to see the world anymore. He simply doesn't want to see what's left of his home now either.
He continues down the path, but not with the long, ground-eating strides of someone going somewhere. He moves like a sleepwalker, no struggle left for things beyond his control. It's not long - though it might as well be forever - before he runs into the militia patrol. Despite every hand being needed in the village now, they are taking shifts, watching for any sign of the attackers returning.
Ward and Wyl block the path ahead of him, alive only because of some kind of druid magic Summer called up during the attack. Bevil isn't sure he would have spared the time, had it been up to him. The brothers still aren't in top shape, but well enough to keep an eye out.
"Move," Bevil warns them, not slowing down.
Wyl puts a hand up, as if that will stop him. "Nobody is supposed to be out here alone-"
Bevil pushes through, clipping them both when they don't move out of his way. He turns to meet their retaliation head-on, but apparently even the Mossfelds aren't looking for a fight today; they frown and shake it off.
"Well, don't say we didn't warn you," Ward grumbles, but there's no heat it in. "You'd better be back in time for your patrol."
Bevil shrugs and walks on hurriedly, agitation with no outlet innervating each step. If the previous stretch passed too slowly, this one passes too quickly, and he finds himself farther afield than planned.
He shouldn't be out here alone, he realizes, as the first tendril of panic begins to hit. Isn't this exactly the type of thing he always tried to warn Summer against? Blundering heedlessly into the Mere, running into who knows what? He is not even armed, having left his sword where he set it aside to work on the barn. Evening shadows already subdue the day; he doesn't want to be here when night falls.
As Bevil turns towards home, anger and loss momentarily fade before an urgent desire to get back to safety. But he's no longer alone out here. Creatures from that night of fire and death block his route to safety and slowly spread out to surround him. A cloaked figure raises its hands and as it speaks, darkness falls.