Arthur McCreedy, undoubtedly the oldest member of the village, looked out the front window of his hovel. Across the road stood the young boy he knew to be Rory. He was not at all surprised to see Rory standing there completely oblivious to the rain that was soaking him through to the skin, for he knew the reason the boy stood, unmoving, barely ten strides away from his own front door.
It pained Arthur to see the boy in so much torment, but he also knew he had to allow this scene to play itself out, to allow the boy and his mother their time to grieve. Rory had been almost the last to know of his father’s passing and needed the time to allow all of what that meant to soak in as deeply as the rain into his drenched clothing.
Arthur never much cared for anyone going out alone from the village as Rory’s father had two days before on one of his usual early morning hunts. He was attacked, rather viciously it seemed, by a timber wolf and would have died alone in the forest had it not been for the coincidental hunting party, that found him lying in a pool of his own blood and returned him with all speed back to the village to be mended.
At first his wounds did not appear so severe despite the amount of blood that he had lost, though once he had been returned to the village Arthur saw they were much more serious. He hadn’t expected him to last the week.
Arthur thought it bitterly ironic that now the rest of the village heeded his warning to only leave the village in groups of at least two, if not more. It was for this reason also that both Tomas and Benjamin were sent to watch over Rory and Kendal on their hunts that morning.
He did not like to take chances, which made the scene unfolding before him so much harder to witness. Rory was only fifteen, yet now he was about to be thrust into manhood by the uncharacteristically foolish act of his father. Arthur knew his duty as the defacto leader of this village, and made his way to his front door to head out into the rain to stand with the young man as he accepted his fate.
