By: Dana
Summary: Walking a difficult road.
Characters: Isenbard North-took and Olivine Hornblower, and a number of ruffians (and other OCs)
Pairings: None
Rating: PG-13/R
Warnings: Gen but with some violence and implications of other dark things, and, once again, OC character death
Author's Notes: Posted for my month long Birthdaypalooza, August 2007.
Olivine's story rather goes hand in hand with Isenbard's story, though Isenbard is only mentioned somewhat in the story above. This was one of my Regrettable Stories, but made postable (I still wish to post the original to my filter). So, there is some rather graphic implications in this story, but I think I cut it down drastically from its original rating. So.
I still feel bad about what I've done here (and what I've done to Olivine). But, one must write as the story demands.
Series Index: In a Sunless Year.
Disclaimer: The author makes no claim to owning the rights of anything to do with J.R.R. Tolkien or New Line Cinema. Any and all characters and situations that have been borrowed are for the author's personal use only, and for the entertainment of others.

Autumn, SR 1419

'I know these hobbits,' Isenbard tried explaining, hand on his cap to keep it there as the cold wind gusted. 'Please, there isn't any need to frighten them – I'll talk to them, and surely they'll give what they can.'

Ruk gave a nod, then grunted something at Wida – something ill-sounding, and Isenbard squared his shoulders. Then Wida was looking at him, grinning, his eyes wide and dark. 'Well, what's the good in standing around, little sir? Get on with it, then.' Then he laughed, eyed Ruk, then Isenbard. 'Don't take all day though, little sir – and don't shut the door.'

Isenbard nodded, then left the two Men (they were joking already, their voices rough and loud, and echoing darkly across the expanse of the yard, the yard made colder for their presence there) – and then Isenbard straightened his collar, and his feathered cap, and in doing so had made his way to the Norfoot's front door.

He knew this place well. His brother Farenbard had fallen in love, and then married, Farmer Norfoot's only daughter, Thistle, in the summer of 1415: then, when Mistress Clover had taken ill, and passed, in 1417, when Farmer Norfoot himself had been too grieved to see to his work and the running of things, Isenbard and Farenbard had worked beside Farmer Norfoot's sons (and his nephew, Robin) to keep the farm going. But the farmer counted Robin as a son, too, for he had lived as one almost all his life – his own parents had died when he was very young.

And so Isenbard tried not to think of all that, the memories, both good and ill – his eyes swelled to tears, but he dashed them away, frowning and concentrating on this one task. He knocked.

'Might I come in?' he said, once he'd knocked, once the door had opened, once he'd taken his cap in his hands. Farmer Norfoot nodded, opened the door fully, and let Isenbard in.

'I never thought you one to side with ruffians,' Farmer Norfoot said, sharply; he had went to shut the door, but at Isenbard's headshake, he hesitated, and roughly pulled his hand away.

Siding with the ruffians – it wasn't as simple as all that, as Farmer Norfoot likely thought. Isenbard had been a Shirriff four years before the Men came, after all, before everything had turned and gone ill: Isenbard had found himself caught, and caught well, but he didn't expect Farmer Norfoot to understand. It wasn't as easy as that, and he could not have simply quit. And anyhow, who else could understand?

Now Farmer Norfoot looked at him, and his gaze was sharp, too. 'Well then – what have you come for, lad?' He glanced out through the door, but did not move.

'For gathering,' Isenbard said, and would have slumped if he'd let himself. Instead, he willed himself straight, and so managed to stand.

Farmer Norfoot frowned. Isenbard sighed, straightened his cap, then put it back on his head. After some thought, the farmer frowned, though he nodded, too. 'Well and well,' he said, voice gruff. 'Go on, then, let your fellows know we'll bring out all we've got – we don't need them crowding about the place, though. I'll tell you now, though, that there isn't much, so they'd best not expect to leave us here, and them with their waggon weighted down.'

Isenbard laughed unhappily, and shook his head. 'It isn't so easy, sir - I'm to see your stores, myself, to know you aren't... holding out. An offence such as that would get you arrested, sir, and earn you a trip to the Lockholes – believe me, I don't want that.'

Farmer Norfoot scowled – Isenbard almost wondered if the farmer could believe him. Then, he turned his head, and shouted, 'Rob-lad, get here, now!', and he turned his gaze on Isenbard – and Isenbard felt rooted to the floor, felt as if he'd suffered a blow.

'Drake and Finch are out, doing gathering of their own,' he said.

Rob-lad – Robin, Farmer Norfoot's nephew, and Isenbard's own sweetheart, or at least, that's how it had been, before – Robin, whom Isenbard hadn't seen in over six months – Robin, whom Isenbard had hoped would not be around. Now, as Robin came into the room, as Robin looked at Isenbard, Isenbard found himself looking at a hobbit different than the one he'd known before, and for all the cracking his heart had done, now he felt it fully break. Robin went to stand at his uncle's side, and Farmer Norfoot spoke to him in low tones. Then, out loud, he said: 'Rob-lad, show Shirriff North-took to our pantry. Make sure to show him what there is, so he'll see what there's not.'

Robin nodded, turned, and Farmer Norfoot left one way, and Robin went the other. Isenbard followed him, wringing his cap in his hands, and they went down one short hall, turned another, and crossed through the small kitchen: the small kitchen, cold, not warm and cheery as Isenbard remembered it having been, when he'd been here last. Robin took up a lantern from where it hung, saw to it, and then they took another door.

Down into the pantry – three steps, and then Isenbard and Robin were on even footing, once more, and Robin held out the lantern, the light burning dully, and Isenbard turned to see.

The shelves were mostly bare, and Isenbard felt a lump form, choking him, in his throat. Then it cleared, and he clutched his cap with one hand, reached for Robin's shoulder with the other. Robin tensed, beneath his hand – but then he turned, his eyes wet, frowning, as he pulled Isenbard, one armed, into his embrace.

'How have you survived?' Isenbard whispered, voice cracking, as he shoved his cap into his pocket, wound Robin in his arms. 'There isn't anything here, I don't see what we possibly could ask for, what they possibly could take.'

Robin looked at him, eyes a wet glimmer – but then he stepped back, pulled himself out of Isenbard's embrace, rubbed at his eyes with his sleeve, and shrugged. 'I go out, sometimes, with Finch and Drake – there's hunting still, and we do some gathering of our own. They're glad Thistle's been taken to North Tunnels, for Farenbard has been a good husband for my cousin – as for Drake and Finch, they're out now, actually, and uncle Robin might have told you that already. I can't say they'd be glad to see you.' Robin frowned, then shook his head. 'Isen, how could you... how could you side with them? Haven't you seen what they've done?'

Isenbard had, in fact, seen what the Men had done – but Robin wouldn't understand, just as Farmer Norfoot wouldn't understand, and Isenbard wished he never had gone for a Shirriff, knowing now the ill that had been done. 'Robin, I'm your friend still, and I love...'

'No,' Robin snapped, and he turned away, the lantern swinging, casting shadows about the pantry. 'No, Isen, please, not that. I can't hear that from you, not now – please,' and here, his voice softened, his head bowed, 'I need you need to understand.' When he lifted his head, he cleared his throat. 'Anyhow, you see what we have, and it isn't much at all. I can't see as what you could take, that wouldn't leave us all to starve.'

Isenbard nodded, wiped his eyes. There was nothing here, not for him, and not for the Men. He put his hand on Robin's shoulder, and squeezed. 'Robin, I...' Then he shook his head, for he could not guess at what he needed to say.

I'm not a traitor seemed foremost among what he might have said, but the words were dead on his tongue. 'We'll go off to the Brownlocks – don't they live only a few miles down the lane? If they were warned, somehow, ahead of time...' But he said no more.

Robin nodded, but didn't look at him. Isenbard sighed, gave Robin's shoulder another squeeze, and felt his eyes swell once more with tears. But he wiped them away, just as he'd done before, and he took his hand from Robin's shoulder, saying, 'I should go, then,' and so he did. Ruk and Wida were out in the farmyard, still joking. Wida turned to Isenbard, as Isenbard came from the house, straightening his cap. 'Well then, sir?' Wida asked, and Isenbard knew he had been mocked. Isenbard shook his head, then, breathing in the cooling autumn air.

'No good,' he said. 'They haven't anything – the Brownlocks live three miles down the lane, we'll have better luck there, I think.'

'Now, that ain't what you told us, before,' Ruk said, but Wida shook his head and put his hand on Ruk's arm. He looked, sideways, at the house, and grinned, his eyes sparking darkly. 'Ah, very well – let's go on to the Brownlocks, then.' He then laughed again, and turned his grin on Isenbard, and Isenbard felt all the edges of his leer.

'I'm sure we'll be compensated well for this merry waste of time,' he said, almost cheerily, and with that, he swung Isenbard up to the bed of the waggon, and then joined him there.

Isenbard looked at the farmhouse. The door had been shut, and now the waggon was rumbling as they started on their way. If the Brownlocks were in fact warned, if they could hide their food and children, he knew it would fall on him to keep Ruk and Wida to strike at them in fury.

Isenbard let Wida stroke his leg, and tried not to think too far ahead.

There wasn't much the Brownlocks could give, and Isenbard stood outside as Wida and Ruk stooped at the frontdoor to go in to look for themselves. That must have mollified them, for they came out, and looked well enough convinced (and irritated, by that). 'Too much inconvenience,' said Ruk, afterwards, as the waggon rumbled on. Isenbard tilted back his head, glanced heavenward, and found a sudden stinging in his eyes.

So he shut his eyes, and wondered if he would see Nobottle again (for, assuredly, he would never again see Robin, or any of his own family).

So he sat, his hands in his lap, on the waggon bed, with too little about him – too much empty space, and he felt Wida watching him.

Then Wida said, 'Come here, lad,' and his voice sounded pleasant, almost. Isenbard turned, and looked at him – and looked. Wida was tall, but must have been young, too, with dark hair, and big hands, long-fingered. Isenbard had never paid much attention to him, but now he studied him with some intent.

And then he rose, but drop down quickly, once he had came to Wida's side. And Wida was grinning at him still. He reached out, touched Isenbard's cheek, and Isenbard refrained from flinching, and kept his eyes open, though he had thought to shut them at once.

For all he watched Wida intently, expecting a blow, when the blow came, it still took him by surprise. Wida hadn't struck with his fist, the flat of his hand instead, and Isenbard went reeling, falling to the side.

He saw stars, head spinning, and he coughed and spit blood onto the wooden planks, and then Wida caught hold of him by the hair. Isenbard had not cried out, at being hit, and he did not cry out, now, as Wida made him sit.

Certainly, Wida expected that Isenbard had had some doing in this, in their going out and coming back almost empty handed. Wida drug him closer, and Isenbard shut his eyes, then, as Wida pulled too close, and then let him drop over Wida's lap.

'Consider that your beating,' said Wida, almost cheerfully. 'Now, onwards – unlace my britches, pretty lad. Let's see what else your mouth can do.'

They came to Nobottle late at night, the sky black and the stars all glittering. Isenbard hovered, between waking and not, and Wida carried him into the shack he'd taken as his own, and dropped him down onto the bed.

'No,' he said, for his mouth still worked, and the room was dimly lit, by moon and star and candle-light, too. 'No, please.'

Wida chuckled, deeply. But he said something, not for some long time, not until his voice drifted out of darkness, low still, rough as the stubble on his cheeks. 'See,' he said. 'Not at all a bad night.'

Sunlight on his cheeks, his wrists burning, Isenbard woke, and opened his eyes. The ceiling was not well-constructed, and he knew at once he was inside one of the Big Men's shacks. His arms were numb, his shoulders aching, and he realised slowly that his arms were bound above his head, wrists bound tightly, though to what, he couldn't tell.

He was empty, and he was alone, and he found himself weeping, as the night washed over him. It was afternoon, he guessed, and though his stomach rumbled, he felt that if he ate, he surely would be ill.

'Ah, there's my lad,' Wida's voice came to him, and Isenbard jerked himself onto his side, pulling hard at his bound wrists. Wida laughed, went to him, settled behind him and stroked his hair, and down his back.

Six months, six months since he'd come to Nobottle, taken there with the other Northfarthing Shirriffs, for the Men would not have been able to make use of them in Long Cleeve. Isenbard had seen, early on, that the Men did not care to trek so far north, for the reaches of the Northfarthing were an unpleasant place, if you did not know them well.

Isenbard had not wanted to leave, but he'd had no choice: so he went off, telling Robin he would come back, telling his parents the same thing.

And now – and now...

Wida must have been young enough, for he took Isenbard again, with as much force as he had the first time – and he left him there, bound and aching, weeping, bruised and sore, to tend to his own duties.

It happened with such regularity, that Isenbard almost grew used to it. Wida certainly had grown used to it, and came to let Isenbard wander loose, for he seemed to have no fear that Isenbard might flee.

Isenbard wondered if he might. If he did, would Wida care to track him down, or would he simply take some other hobbit, and force him, or her, instead? If Isenbard was with Wida, then he would save someone else from this fate, and so that at least kept him from running, kept his feet rooted in place.

Isenbard scrubbed himself, though he never thought that he would be fully clean. Wida was gone that day, off to the Lockholes, to conduct prisoners, along with the other Shirriffs. Isenbard might have drowned himself in the little bronze tub, but hardly thought that his proper end.

So he cleaned himself, as well as he could, dressed and went out, for he had forgot the taste of wind, the feel of sunlight, and he wept at seeing the sun, a tightening in his chest.

Tad, another of the Men (there were six of them, Wida and Ruk as two others, and Wida the chief of them, and him almost pleasant, at times), joked on seeing him, and asked him, 'Tell me, are you only Wida's whore?'

Isenbard forced a grin and laughed, 'From what I hear, Tad, whores get paid.' Still, he knelt before Tad, where he was sitting in the grass, and sucked him off with as much grace as he could.

'Isen... Isen...'

'Go away,' he said, and a hand caught his. He thought it Wida, cracked his eyes open, but saw Olivine, instead – Olivine, his brother Issy's sweetheart, her hair dark as night and her eyes green as grass, her eyes overflowing.

Isenbard somehow managed to sit.

'Livvie,' he said, his tongue thick. It was after mid-day, but they were in the shadow of one of the Men's tall shacks. 'How did you find me? Why have you come?'

Her eyes said, 'I saw you, with that Man – oh, Isen, what have you become?', and likely, she thought him more than just a traitor, but when she spoke, her words were not as he would have guessed.

'I saw... I came to find you, for poor Issy's sake – he worries himself sick, knowing the danger you are in... he never wished it, to think you'd sided with the ruffians. Well, he won't think that, now, will he? You need to come home.'

Isenbard shook his head, for there was no going home, at least not for him, not for Boss Wida's whore. 'No,' he said, tongue still thick. 'No, I can't. This place is mine, now...'

'Oh, Isen – '

'It is... it is...' He shook his head, and felt weak, and bent his head against her shoulder. She smelled of cool wind, and green grass, and sunlight, fresher than what fell from the sky. 'Why have you come?'

'To bring you home,' she said, softly. 'Here, look at me, Isen,' and Isenbard did, looked into her grass-green eyes.

'I came with Andy Chubb-Took, for he had business here – and all the proper papers, too, blast those Men and their Rules – I meant to find you, and Andy will see you're to go home, too, and – '

'No,' said Isenbard, 'no. I wouldn't wish for Andy to see me, such, or for Issy, or Faren, or our father, either. I'd not... I'd not wish it on them, to see what I've become.' And he might have said something, about choices, and making those choices, for those that you loved.

Olivine spoke instead. 'Have they beat you, too? Or have they only abused you, ah, otherwise?' Again, her eyes overflowed.

'Only otherwise,' he said. 'And I thought that nothing could be worse, but I saw how they broke Betony Smallburrow, and I know they set up gallows to the south of town, and there they hung her brother Gillen, so perhaps it isn't so bad, really, them having me as they have.'

'If you won't come with me, I'll go fetch Andy, and we'll drag you off together. You can't stay here, Isen – it's killing you. Don't you see that? We all love you, and we want you home – it doesn't matter, I don't think, what else has happened, what else you've done. You don't deserve this, Isen, you don't.'

He found himself nodding to empty grass, for Olivine hurried to her feet and went north, cutting across the road, and then went out of sight. Isenbard stood, after a time, and wiped his trousers clean. He'd not see her again, he guessed. His mind ached, and his head spun. This was all he was now, after all.

He went back to Wida's shack, and waited for him there, for Isenbard knew that he was worth nothing else.

It was closer now to November than it was to September – somehow, the days still came and went, and though it all should have ended – for nothing could be so wrong and yet continue on – the year was still turning, and once autumn had faded, winter would come.

Olivine visited him again, three days after that. He told her about the Lockholes, for he had gone there – on business, he said, to conduct prisoners, rebels from out of Tighfield – and he had hated himself for doing nothing, for anything would have been better than nothing. 'They might have locked me up, too, or they might have beat me, and told me to remember my place. They weren't really beating prisoners, then, but I hear it's happened more. There's a new Chief in Hobbiton, some say.'

He hadn't thought he'd see her, again, and now he told her more than he ever would have told his little brother. He remembered what Wida said, and their proper Chief – had he come, at last? He wondered what that meant, for all of them.

Then Isenbard shook his head. 'Livvie, if you are so set on visiting me – surely, you must have better things to do – then you should tell me some good news. Is there any good news? Or is everything off, and wrong?'

And she smiled, and gave his hand a pat. 'Here, eat,' she said, for he would let him waste away, if he were allowed. She had come with Andy, again, and come to visit him in secret. Now, they sat in the shadow of a tall, bent poplar, at the edge of a twisted copse, with an open basket between them, and Olivine's hand on his.

He freed his hand. There was bread, and cheese, and cool fruit juice – Long Cleeve was fairing, that was certain, and Isenbard was glad, for there needed to be some part of the Shire that these foul Men could not touch.

(They had, at first, of course. But Mistress Beryl was resourceful, and Master Faragrand, too, and there were secret stores the Men had not touched, for that had been deep in North Tunnels proper.)

'Well?' he said. 'Is there any good news?'

'I never told you how I found you,' she said, instead. He nodded, for that was true. 'Robin Norfoot came to North Tunnels,' Olivine went on quietly. 'I couldn't believe it, nor could Issy, that you had taken with the ruffians – I don't think Robin believed it, either, but his uncle was with him, and I don't think he'll ever trust you, not ever again.'

Isenbard felt his heart drop. He wanted to say, that isn't fair. He wanted to say, that isn't right. He wanted to tell Olivine that Farmer Norfoot was wrong, for he couldn't understand, and Isenbard had only done what he's done, thinking for the better.

But he said nothing, his heart dropping further, and bread tasted like ash in his mouth, and then, as he felt that he might choke on it, it tasted like nothing at all.

'Isen – Isen, please.' She'd taken his hand, and held it pressed between her own. He looked at her, blankly, and wondered if there ever would be a chance for him to go home, or if that was gone from him forever. Perhaps the Shire would never be the same, for certainly he never would. Then Olivine smiled, hesitated, and smiled wider. 'Forgive me. I should not have gone on like that. Robin was well, though, when I saw him, and he told me that he misses you. And Issy, he misses you, too.'

But it was too late. Olivine went quiet, and looked at Isenbard's hand. He followed her gaze, and they both saw that his sleeve had been pushed up, somewhat, and his wrist was bruised, from one of Wida's big hands.

'He likes to hold me down,' Isenbard mumbled, numbly. Then, he laughed, and pulled his hand away. 'Go on, Livvie. You needn't spend your time in the company of a broken hobbit like me. Give Robin my love, though, if you see him. And Issy, too.'

'I will,' said Olivine, sadly. Then she kissed his cheek. 'I promise you, I'll come back. I'll see you through this, I will.'

He believed her, but hardly thought it would do him – or either of them, actually – any good.

Isenbard had been given a dozen, no, two dozen or more chances to run, but he had not taken them, not any of them.

Wida sent him out, to run messages for Wida, to Scrobb and Icca, who were stationed across town. The day was chilly, and November had come fully, and soon enough, Isenbard knew there would be snow.

He had stopped paying much attention to the attention others paid him: some looked at him, pitied him, for they saw his bruises, though he did his best to keep them covered. Others looked at him, and must have thought of son or father, taken off to the Lockholes, perhaps never to return. Some might have pitied him, but others likely thought he was only being given his due. For how could he have sided with the Men, ever, and stand against hobbits, his own kind?

It was more complicated than Isenbard had ever guessed it would be. He'd done what he had for the right of it, and had suffered in his choice. Anyhow, perhaps he did deserve it, now.

He was Shirriff North-took in name, still, if not in fact. He held his head high, for he had little more than the shredded remains his dignity left (and as it was shredded, there was not even much of that).

Scrobb and Icca were fouler than Wida (who kept himself surprisingly clean – Isenbard would know), or even Ruk – they were both short, with dark, stringy hair, and swarthy skin, and black, beady eyes. But they were fouler in other ways, and not just that. Scrobb didn't speak much at all, though he did still communicate with Icca, in grunts and low growls and bits of dark gibberish that Isenbard wouldn't wish to understand, and just the sound of it made him feel ill – and he watched Isenbard, whenever he came near (or whatever other hobbit happened to be about), narrowing his already squinted eyes.

He watched, but never did much more than that. Anyhow, Isenbard had a job to do, and they both did seem to listen to their boss, so they didn't detain him, and Icca sent him back on his way.

Wida was in a jolly mood, and sat outside his shack, with Isenbard on his lap. Wida was the chief in town, and all others came to him, to report, to give news. Isenbard knew he wasn't the only traitor in town, but the others weren't so well-known as he. Eldin Smallburrow, a cousin of Betony and her brother's, who'd been there when Gillen had been hung, who still wanted after power of his own, reported often to Wida, for goings on about town.

Eldin looked at Isenbard as if he were dirty, and did not like to stay long in his company. Eldin was plain to look at, though, and Isenbard knew that Wida would still do as he liked. Perhaps he should think himself lucky, that Wida fancied him as he did.

When Eldin went (looking back as he did, as if he thought Wida might come after him), Wida shifted Isenbard, and put him down in the grass. Isenbard stood, and Wida cupped his cheeks, thumbed his lower lip, smiling that certain smile as he did.

Isenbard had expected Olivine to come again, but it was Andy – Andevar Chubb-Took, a cousin of a cousin, and thus, to Isenbard, a connexion, but family, still.

It was just a lucky, turn, Wida being gone, having gone south with the others, to Hobbiton and Bywater, that was what Wida had said.

Still, Isenbard wondered why it wasn't Olivine. He dreamt of her (imagine that, for all his loving Robin, he's been dreaming of his little brother's intended), and dreamt of her again. He had expected her to come, and wondered why she hadn't.

So Isenbard asked why Olivine hadn't come and, with pain in his eyes, Andy told Isenbard why she hadn't been able to: because she couldn't.

'Was it quick? Did they catch her, beat her? I hope they did nothing more.'

Andy's mouth was thin, hard, and he shook his head, hesitated, then nodded. 'We meant to come, Livvie and myself, and my brother Elly too, but Olivine went ahead, to see you in secret, and we found her... after.'

'After?' Isenbard breathed. 'After.'

He shut his eyes, and for a moment, he saw Olivine, as she'd been, and as she was: bright smiled, faded to the broken, dead line of her mouth, spring-bright eyes gone dark, her own blood matting her hair. 'On the roadside,' he said, numbly. 'You found her own the roadside, and she told you she was sorry, but it was too late, wasn't it? Already too late. You held her, and you told her that you wouldn't weep, and she died there in your arms, and you cried anyhow, despite the promise you had made.'

He had not dreamt that, but he felt it now, his eyes overflowing. He'd wept so much, and all for himself, but now he wept for Olivine, and Olivine alone. He took one shuddering breath, and then another, and Andy watched him, suspicion flashing dully in his eyes. (A traitor once, a traitor always.) But then it faded, and Andy looked at Isenbard through guilty grey eyes, and he pulled Isenbard to him, and held him as he wept.

'Let me find you something to wear,' Andy said, sometime after, when Isenbard had wept himself dry. 'There must be something.' He kissed Isenbard's brow, told him to sit still, and then let him go, hopped down off the old, ill-made bed, and crossed the room.

So Isenbard sat there, wrapped his arms about himself, shaking. There was nothing he could do to turn it back, was there? There was nothing he could do to change their places, now that she was gone.

He wondered how Issy had been pained, for having lost his love. So Isenbard decided, as Andy picked about the little shack, as sunlight slid across the far wall, that he wanted to go home, though home might not want him.

They found out, later, what had drawn the Men to Bywater, for there had been an uprising, there: and so the Men were scoured from the Shire (well, that was the start of it, anyhow), and Isenbard never again saw Wida, for likely he was dead. That meant that the Shire was free, and Isenbard, too.

But though Isenbard was free, Olivine was dead, and Gillen Smallburrow, too, who the Men had hung: and other hobbits, too, more hobbits than Isenbard knew names, had been killed, or hurt in one fashion or another.

Isenbard had been hurt, after all, though he thought that mattered little. Olivine was dead, and now his brother would never have her as his wife (for she would have made a very fine sister, he found himself thinking). So he told himself again: they might be dead, but you are not, and he could think of no better way to do right by those who had gone, than to live his life, and live it well.

Even after everything else. Even if his father could not look him in the eye. Even if Andy could not, either. Even if Farmer Norfoot had come to him, to tell him not to come about, again, or ever, and not to think on Robin, for he was better off without Isenbard, and surely even Isenbard could see that.

Even after. He would live. He had survived, somehow, and, if only for Olivine's memory (and for Issy, too, for Isenbard wished with all his heart, that if his brother did not want him anymore, at least he would go on living, too), he would not let that go to waste.

Spring, SR 1420

He had gone home, and found that home not only didn't want him, but he didn't want it, either. He removed himself to Greenfields, thusly, with coin of his own, but with his father's help as well – as part as his good-bye, perhaps, and all he'd see of the family money. But with it, he bought himself his own smial, there, for he thought he needed it, and to be on his own – an exile, in the north of the Northfarthing. It seemed fitting, somehow.

Three months after, in the spring of 1420, there was a knock at his door. It was Robin, come from south of Long Cleeve, smiling, tired looking, and almost sad – even for his smile.

'I hope you will forgive me,' said Robin, and Isenbard nodded, and let Robin draw him into his embrace. 'I've missed you. I love you. Uncle had wished I... I have no home to go back to, right now. Will you have me, Isen?'

'Always,' said Isenbard, and it was true. They could be exiles, together, for ever and ever, until their end.