The old man held up a hand for silence with a gesture that was graceful and almost fluid, then looked at Declan with large, soft eyes that were set in a face that bore no lines or wrinkles either of age or character. In a gentle voice that was low and clear like a woman's, he spoke for the first time.

"We owe you a great debt, young man," he said. "How may we repay it?"

Declan had expected to be stealing from the two of them rather than being offered a reward. He shivered and a sudden yawn stretched his jaw and caused more blood to trickle down his cheek. "You may pay me with warmth, and rest, and food."

The old man pointed to the fire. "Warm yourself," he said, "Light and neat are needed to mend your face, and to cook our food. In a short time you may eat your fill and later, before you leave us, as much more as you wish to carry."

– 

"Thank you," he replied, grateful that he did not have to steal. "My name is Declan."

"And I am Ma'el," said the old man.

'There is no need," said the boy, "for one such as you to know my name."

"May-ell?" said Declan. He looked at the stiff, angry face of the boy for a moment, then went on, "A name can be a proud or a shameful thing. If you do not give it I will not know which."

"Ma'el," the old man corrected him gently, and quickly before the boy could respond he went on, "and this one calls himself Sean. My hand light is nigh to expiring and I must wait for it to renew its life. Let us move to the fire."

A few minutes later Declan was seated crosslegged and as close to the light and heat of the fire as he could bear while the boy busied himself with boiling a pan of water in which lay strips of torn cloth, a small, bone needle, and what looked like a length of fine catgut already threaded onto it.