FRANCIS ESTTEMORT'S POINT OF VIEW
For a few minutes the silence hung in the air, the sound of the autumn wind blowing through the leaves was audible as a soft, silent and distant whistle. Henry disappeared in the forest, when he left the forest Francis realized that his gaze seemed not to want to continue, he couldn't do it, now the two were alone and had only one another, the challenges would only increase from then on, so they would have to stay stronger, and they were both aware of it. The weather had cooled a little, half an hour had already passed, Francis was bending down beside his master's towel wrapped body, thinking: "he was very thin, he is incredibly light". The body was still very hot, Francis looked at that bundle of cloths like a loved one who had accompanied him until that moment and had seen him grow up, and he doesn't feel good about leaving a companion that close, his lung hurts because of the air cold while a million thoughts went through his head, Francis was totally lost, he knew what to do but he was afraid, so his body acted alone, in a split second he pulled his dagger to the touch and pierced his palm left, blood dripped from the palm of the hand until it dripped on the floor, he chose to use physical pain to forget the emotion, feeling that pain that stopped thinking and came to him, he took a handful of cloths and wrapped his hand, but he is broken inside, he was in an intense fight with his eyes not to cry, cautiously he forced himself to get up and take the body again, taking the first step, he went towards the forest where Henry had entered to dig a burial The.
HENRY DEATHEART'S POINT OF VIEW
Henry was sitting on a tree root looking at the hole he had just dug, it was reasonably deep, and perspiration continued to trickle down his forehead, it was hard to believe that the only family he had besides his uncle and Francis was dead, he was not psychologically prepared for this.
His sweat was cooling rapidly on his skin, his slender body began to shiver from being exposed to the cold since he had taken off his shirt to dig the grave. He lay down comfortably at the root where he was, it was strange, but he simply refused to think about his master's death. Internally, he just runs away from his thoughts, sadness and self-pity.
Footsteps sounded in the forest, Henry opened his eyes quickly, his instincts speaking louder as he pulled the dagger from around his waist. His eyes meet the deep eyes of Francis's dark circles, his face full of serious expression and his head bowed under a forced smile in the corner of his mouth. In his arms a package hung gently as if it were a baby, Francis passed without saying a word to the newly dug and slightly damp grave while I kept the dagger.
FRANCIS ESTTEMORT'S POINT OF VIEW
My friend, sitting on his mule, with the old battle steed walking behind, galloped beside me. Several hours passed and none of us had said a word, Henry's breathing was heavy and much more than audible, but he showed a confident look always looking ahead, which gave me molds to finally break the ice between us , but when I finally opened my mouth to speak, he spoke first:
"We are going to get to the capital and we are going to win this tournament." He said, looking at me with a frown in a confident look.
I looked at him with a confident look and shook my head saying:
"of course".