The dawn broke pale and misty, the air still heavy with the night's chill. Beyond the castle walls, at the edge of the forest, two horses stood saddled, their breath steaming in the morning air. Caedmon waited, his cloak drawn tight, his eyes fixed on the castle gates.
And then she came. Elswyth, cloaked in simple linen, her golden hair braided plainly, slipped through the mist like a vision. She moved quickly, her steps light, her eyes alight with mischief and daring.
"You should not be here," Caedmon said, though the smile tugging at his lips betrayed his joy.
"And yet here I am," she answered, mounting the horse with practiced grace.
Together they rode into the forest, laughter spilling from them like music. For those few hours, there were no crowns, no courts, no duties—only two lovers and the whispering of the trees. The scent of pine filled the air, the brook babbled nearby, and their horses galloped as though they, too, craved freedom.
At a quiet clearing by the stream, Caedmon dismounted and helped her down. She stumbled into his arms, their faces so close that words became unnecessary. His forehead pressed to hers, his breath warm against her lips.
"If I could keep you here," he murmured, "far from all eyes, far from duty—would you come?"
Elswyth's eyes shone with unshed tears, her voice trembling. "I would come. To the world's end, I would follow you."
Their kiss by the brook was fierce, desperate, unlike the trembling sweetness of their first. It was not just love—it was a vow.
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