Weekly Prompt Writing

From tonight's Skype meeting. I've never written from Conan's point of view before.

The snow, falling in thick wet masses, insulated the sound so Conan couldn't hear the far-off rattle of wagon wheels. He rubbed his temples as he threaded through the crowd of peasants. Evacuations were so inconvenient. And this time, Lord Rackleburth wasn't even around to help. The wind picked up and he turned up his coat collar. His destination was only a few hundred feet away, but the throng of people slowed his path.

As he passed them, some old men tipped their hats, a few women curtseyed, but most ignored him, absorbed in packing and keeping the children in sight. A weight threw itself against Conan, and he turned around just in time to catch a young woman before she fell. She composed herself, murmuring apologies. "I'm so sorry, your highness, I slipped on the ice. I would never mean to..." She was clutching a bundle close to her ragged body. She glanced down at it with a look of tenderness. To Conan's surprise, she began whispering to her bundle. Unable to resist his own curiosity, he craned his neck to see what she was holding. It was an infant, not older than four months. It was swathed in cheap fabric tied around it with a string, and was sleeping fitfully.

The girl saw Conan's glance. "My son," she said. Her face clouded with somberness and something like shame, and her eyes searched the snowy ground.

"Keep him warm," said Conan, and took off his coat to hand to her. She took it with an utterance of incredulous gratitude and he continued on his way to the castle.

He glanced back as he walked. With one arm, the girl was deftly wrapping the coat around both herself and her baby. Conan wondered why he had given it to her. He wondered if the she would ever see her baby's father again.