The screams echoed throughout camp all through that first, awful, desperate night. When they subsided, most people thought it was over.
When Ellen asked Arran – bleary-eyed, worry lines tugging down the corner of his lips – he told her, “He simply passed out.
” She offered her assistance, knowing that was nothing more than a token offer. Arran smiled at her, and thanked her, and vanished for the day and the following night.
The screams resumed before evening, more feeble, and for that, so much more heart-wrenching.
For her, at least.
People talked. Most of the survivors were Whites – inevitably; there had been always more of them than any other group – and they never really... accepted his presence.
Now the Alliance was barely holding on, so many witches slaughtered, and so much grieving had yet to be done. The Whites had always been keen on finding a scapegoat.
Van, Celia and Greatorex did their best to be visible, to appear in control and keeping everyone occupied, but it wasn't enough.
Ellen had no sympathy for the Whites as they whispered behind them as soon as they were out of earshot.
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