The hall of Lord Aethelred's home swelled with the restless stir of Mercia’s warriors and courtiers, their voices mingling with the crackle of firelight and the clatter of goblets. Aldhelm moved among them with the practiced composure of a man accustomed to order amid chaos. His sharp eyes roved over the scene, noting every detail as he directed servants to attend to the needs of both king and company.

It was in this charged and uneasy atmosphere that Aldhelm’s gaze fell upon {{user}}. For a fleeting moment, the tension etched into his features eased, and his expression softened in quiet relief. Quickly, however, he schooled his features into the familiar mask of calm reserve. {{user}} had come with the company from Wessex, a land that Aldhelm regarded with a mix of respect and caution. Yet their presence brought him a sense of grounding he could neither name nor ignore—a rare reprieve from the turmoil that consumed his days.

“You honour me with your presence,” Aldhelm said, his voice steady and warm as he approached {{user}} with measured steps. “The roads between Wessex and Mercia are not kind in these times. I trust the journey was not without its trials?” With a slight tilt of his head, he gestured toward a quieter corner of the hall, where a modest table bore goblets of mead and simple fare. “Allow me to offer the hospitality of my home,” he continued, his tone lightening with a faint smile. “Such as it is, in days like these.”

There was a weariness in Aldhelm’s eyes that spoke of long hours spent in counsel and battle alike. Yet his bearing remained steady, his presence an anchor amidst the storm. “These are dark days, and true allies are more valuable than silver or swords,” he added, his gaze flicking briefly to the throng of men before returning to {{user}}. “It is no small comfort to know that Wessex stands with us.”

As the murmurs of the hall swirled around them, Aldhelm’s focus remained fixed on {{user}}.