‘Ma,’ he croaked.

She looked around, blinked at him for a moment. ‘You’re back.’

‘I’m back.’

He walked over to her, and she stuck one corner of the axe in the block for safe keeping and met him half way. Even though she was so much smaller than him she still held his head against her shoulder. Held it with one hand and pressed it to her, wrapped her other arm tight around him, strong enough to make it hard to breathe.

‘My son,’ she whispered.

He broke away from her, sniffing back his tears, looking down. Saw his cloak, or her cloak, and how muddied, and bloodied, and torn it was. ‘I’m sorry. Reckon I got your cloak ruined.’

She touched his face. ‘It’s a bit of cloth.’

‘Guess it is at that.’ He squatted down, and ruffled Festen’s hair. ‘You all right?’ He could hardly keep his voice from cracking.

‘I’m fine!’ Slapping Beck’s hand away from his head. ‘Did you get yourself a name?’

Beck paused. ‘I did.’

‘What is it?’

Beck shook his head. ‘Don’t matter. How’s Wenden?’

‘Same,’ said Beck’s mother. ‘You weren’t gone more’n a few days.’

He hadn’t expected that. Felt like years since he was last here. ‘I guess I was gone long enough.’

‘What happened?’

‘Can we … not talk about it?’

‘Your father talked about nothing else.’

He looked up at her. ‘If there’s one thing I learned it’s that I’m not my father.’

‘Good. That’s good.’ She patted him gently on the side of the face, wet glimmering in her eyes. ‘I’m glad you’re here. Don’t have the words to tell you how glad I am. You hungry?’

He stood, straightening his legs feeling like quite the effort, and wiped away more tears on the back of his wrist. Realised he hadn’t eaten since he left the Heroes, yesterday morning. ‘I could eat.’

‘I’ll get the fire lit!’ And Festen trotted off towards the house.

‘You coming in?’ asked Beck’s mother.

Beck blinked out towards the valley. ‘Reckon I might stay out here a minute. Split a log or two.’

‘All right.’

‘Oh.’ And he slid his father’s sword from his belt, held it for a moment, then offered it out to her. ‘Can you put this away?’

‘Where?’

‘Anywhere I don’t have to look at it.’

She took it from him, and it felt like a weight he didn’t have to carry no more. ‘Seems like good things can come back from the wars,’ she said.

‘Coming back’s the only good thing I could see.’ He leaned down and set a log on the block, spat on one palm and took up the wood axe. The haft felt good in his hands. Familiar. It fitted ’em better than the sword ever had, that was sure. He swung it down and two neat halves went tumbling. He was no hero, and never would be.

He was made to chop logs, not to fight.

And that made him lucky. Luckier’n Reft, or Stodder, or Brait. Luckier’n Drofd or Whirrun of Bligh. Luckier’n Black Dow, even. He worked the axe clear of the block and stood back. They don’t sing many songs about log-splitters, maybe, but the lambs were bleating, up on the fells out of sight, and that sounded like music. Sounded a sweeter song to him then than all the hero’s lays he knew.