The moon was in the early stages of being a waxing gibbous. Enough light to see the road, contrasted by the dark and foreboding forest at his side. His steps were light, and his spirit was surprisingly light. I wonder why?

Given that his mother was dead, and Bertrand was likely in chains or worse, Marc should have been a sobbing mess. A part of him did want to drop to his knees and beg for God to take him, but this was also the most freedom he ever had. 

“I’m going on an adventure,” Marc whispered, worried that talking out loud would—

“Halt!” a man ordered.

When he got up, an idea struck him like an arrow to the chest. He did know of an uncle up north. A baron hated his father and was known for following orders to the letter of the law to annoy the Comte. It was rare to hear his father mention him without there being followed by a slew of swears.

Now he had a destination in mind, one that would further distance himself from his father’s lands. Based on the travel of the sun, he concluded this road led north, which was oddly fortunate. Best not dwell on a gift from the Fates…

While it was doubtful that he would get a warm welcome, Marc figured his uncle would help, if only to annoy his father…

The meat had been too close to the flame, which followed the dripping fat up to the flesh. With his meal engulfed in flames, Marc had to do something. He grabbed and violently shook the stick, but that did nothing to douse the flames.

Out of options, he ran towards the creek and dunked the flaming rabbit into the creek. When he pulled out the sopping wet breakfast, his jaw went slack, and let out a long sigh. This defeat let weariness to further seep into his bones.

While viable, it was not worth the risk of going into Town. The townspeople would recognise him and would very likely report his arrival for fear of reprisal.

So far, he had time and distance going for him. Whatever solution he found needed to increase his odds for survival. I need to add to the distance, which further reduces their chances of finding me—

“Merde!”

He suspected they hoped Marc would either perish of his own accord, swallowed up by a world that was dangerous at the best of times. They have no idea that my mother and Bertrand gave me all the tools I need.

Marc was not some newborn babe out in the wilds. However, he did lack coins and supplies. His clothes were a problem as well, as they would be noticed. None of the peasants could afford clothes like this. The same goes for Enfers and his saddle.

He needed an ally, but had little contract with those outside of the keep. I doubt anyone would risk the fury of the Count to help me… at least they won’t do it overtly.

While waiting for his meal to cook, Marc leaned back against an enormous tree trunk. The change in pace was enough for all the aches and pains brought on by yesterday’s exertion to creep back into his mind. In that moment he was thankful for youth, remembering how Bertrand would complain about his bad knees on cold and wet days. 

“What have I done?” Marc asked.

A trail of blood red water flowed down from where he stood. Without a blade he had to get creative, but nature often provided in times of need. He found several frangible rocks that left behind sharp edges when broken. It was work to skin, and dress the hare, but now it was cooking over an open flame. 

Now that his hands were free of blood, Marc ran his fingers over his knuckles. The wound from last night had dried leaving thick scabs. At least there’s no pain.

When his hands were free of blood, the young man ventured back to his campsite. Enfers appeared entirely content to be here… or is it fear on account of what I did to the hare.