Under the light of the moon, two runaways. The figure racing at the front is slender, agile, excited: a teenage boy. The one padding at his back is weaker – weakened by effort and despair – heavier and nearly exhausted. A woman.

“Wait...” she moans.

But the skinny boy does not stop. He leaps over a fallen tree, then out into a clearing. But instead of running across it in the open, he turns left to trail along the line of the trees.

“Come on, come on,” he hisses.

She draws her tattered dress above the knees to overstep the tree trunk, but the fabric gets caught in the branches. She unhooks it with difficulty and sets herself loose, dragging her feet on. But the boy's silhouette has disappeared already under the trees, so she sees not the path he has taken: she paces onward, through the clearing. Before her, the ground glimmers in the moonlight like scattered gold. A mire.

As she steps down from a mound of earth, her feet slide on the muddy slope. She tries to regain balance, but instead, her feet slump in muck. She topples over and falls on her knees and hands, sinking to her elbows. She lets out a groan.

The boy stops and rushes back to her. The swamp is not deep - she can stand up, he knows, but seems defeated. He can hear her sob.

“Come on, darling, stand up,” he holds out his hand. “Come on. You can do it. Just a little bit further. All right?”

She sniffles. Finally, she wipes her nose with her sleeve above the elbow where it is less soiled by mud, and nods, reaching for his hand. She leans on his arm.

“Are you sure this is the way?” she asks quietly. “Doesn't it lead us too close to the road?” 

“Look at me...” She looks into his face – although still bearing childish traits, maidenly lips and rounded cheeks framing his otherwise sharp features, there is a confidence and determination in his grey eyes. He holds out his hand: “It will be fine.”

His confidence and his warm gesture help her muster her depleted might. For a few last steps. They get out of the swamp and back under the forest, and run again, until the trees become rarer and rarer. And then, as they rush towards the clearing beyond a small mound, a sudden commotion makes her heart jump. Before she can realise what is going on, she feels hands grasping her - people surrounding her – voices exclaiming:

“Got her!”

The woman yells sharply as she feels herself immobilised: it's her master, the one she had run away from. Her scream is one of despair. It's all over.

Her puffy eyes are filled with tears. The boy... the boy who helped her, Kjartan... he'll be in trouble for aiding a runaway slave, won't he? She looks back at him worriedly.

But Kjartan is smiling. One of her master's kinsmen is patting his shoulder. He opens his palm and the man slips something inside it, something that jingles metallic. He turns his head and looks at her a moment, his eyes sharp the colour of steel. The smile doesn't fade from his face, and his eyes travel away from her calmly, as if not even noticing her despair, her hurt. Looking at her master, he nods.

The tears roll down the woman's cheeks.