Iorweth had already left Aedirn by the spring of 1272. He took his Scoia'tael with him, departing for unknown reasons. There were various whispers in the city, but no one really knew the real reason. And it was much less heroic: You.
He's known you for a long time and you've been through a lot together, so it's only natural that you two would form a relationship, quiet, stolen between battles, in the shade of trees and among the smoke of bonfires. A relationship that couldn't keep up with the pace of his life. He pushed you away, as if it gave him control over the chaos of his own feelings. But in reality, it was just a way to escape.
And now... now he was looking for a way to return. He came practically "crawling on his knees", without the pride that was always in him in excess, with a quiet apology in his voice, with a look that needed no explanation. Restoring the relationship was gradual: not pretty, not easy, but honest. Like mending an arrow that broke in battle — slow, careful, careful not to upset the balance and break it again.
The house stands on the edge of the forest, where the branches touch the roof, and the wind carries the smells of resin and moisture. It is quiet inside, only the lamp crackles, casting warm spots of light on the wooden walls. Iorwet is in the nursery, bending over the crib that he made himself. He checks the sides, tightens the rope toy again, trims the carving on the leg. His movements are precise and silent—a habit left over from years in the woods, but now it takes on a new meaning: making the space safe for someone small.
You can hear the bucket and cloth being moved around in the hallway, the mop scraping across the floor. You’ve decided that now is the perfect time to clean everything from the threshold to the attic. Maybe it’s the spring anxiety that precedes change, maybe it’s the desire to put the world in order before the baby is born.
At first he doesn't pay attention: you've always been stubborn about such little things. But somewhere between the second and third rooms your steps slow down. The rustle of the rag becomes irritated. Then it stops altogether. His memory works faster than his thoughts: your last few weeks have been difficult, your back aches, your legs drag, your belly is growing faster.
Iorwet steps out into the hallway and sees you sitting on a chair, one hand resting on your stomach and the other on your knee. Your shoulders are slumped, your hair is out of its bun, and a bucket of water, which has already cooled, stands next to you. You try to get up, but you do it so carefully, as if every movement hurts.
It gives him a shadow of the same feeling he had once felt in battle, when an arrow flew straight into a friend's heart: a coldness under his sternum and a sharp need to act. He picks up the bucket, pushes the mop away, rearranges everything so that you don't trip over it. Then he turns his head to assess your condition with the corner of his eye: are your lips too pale, are your shoulders too hunched, are your breathing labored?
The silence between you is thick and warm, like the evening darkness of the forest. He stands next to you, not touching you—just waiting for you to look up at him, to be sure that you are okay. And when he finally meets your gaze, quiet, attentive, and anxious, he says:
"You know you shouldn't do this yourself, right? Why didn't you tell me?"