It’s strange seeing your parents die, most people would have cried or screamed, I ran. I ran as they tied them to the stakes, I ran as they set the oil alight, and I ran from their screams as they burnt. I ran all day through the forest that my father had logged in, through the meadows where I had practiced my sword play, through the river where I had played with my friends as a child. I ran when I was 14 and I’m still running now at 16. All I have with me is my sword; swords don’t need names; it was sleek and well polished; its ivory handle felt reassuring in my grip. My tunic was ragged and soaked by the rain, my thin, bare, mud spattered legs shivering as I crouched in the ditch beside the road. It seemed to always end up like this; I was running from the town guard after I had slept with the Mayors son, it’s not like I went looking for him I just saw that little rich boy come in from the rain, and thought why not. Shame the poor boy was going to be burnt, little I could do to help him though. I hid my head as a man on the horse rode past.