Kitha didn’t have time for sadness. Anger. Grief. Only worry. It bore down on her shoulders, beating with the sun. It slid down her face and drew her eyebrows together. Her and the children were still marching east, the group they had gone out with slowly dwindling. Some had left off the path to die slowly, others to neighbouring villages to see if they can find family. Every-time one had left, she counted her children, drew them closer, gave them more of her food. But the food was nearly gone, leaving her stomach twisted.

Once they had enough food. Once her husband had given them enough to eat and wear. But he was gone. With their home, with their clothes. With everything. She was just trying to get them to the summer farm.

It was early morning when she told her children to get up and they left the group. They climbed up a hill, the baby strapped to Kitha’s chest. She hadn’t named her yet - had always supposed her husband would. As per custom. Rheban had stopped whining two days ago, face drawn with the same worry his mother wore.

“Boy, walk closer. Don’t stray.” She said brusquely. He hurried up and clutched her outstretched hand. “Good.” Her blonde hair was twisted and braided around her temple, dress splattered with mud. But he was clean. She’d made sure of that.

They came to the top of the hill, forest parting as they came into the sunlight. A ruined farmhouse hunkered below, smoke still rising from its collapsed roof.

Rheban stared. “Was that going to be our house?”

She stared. “No.” She said finally. “Not at all. It’s further.” She stared at the building, through a smashed window, glass still hanging loosely from frames. To the kitchen. To the bedrooms. To her memories. She turned away before she lingered too long. A crow lighted on the fencepost, watching them with intent, as if waiting for scraps. She pulled Rheban along, stroking the baby’s head.

They crested the hill and stopped dead at the sight of a small soldier’s camp.

“Come, boy. We-“

“You there!” A voice shouted, a man coming out of a tent. “Who goes there?”

“Travellers, sir. Just- travellers.” Kitha desperately sought the tents for sight of a flag or something that would signify friend or foe.

“Not Mountain Folk, are ye?” He said, hand flexing around the hilt of his sword. She shook her head, bundling Rheban behind her. He sniffed. “Come closer. I’ll take you to the captain.” She reluctantly walked toward the camp.