AYLETH
Ayleth wasn't sure when she fell asleep, but it was a relief to rest under the weight of him, to know with certainty that he was there. That he couldn't leave without her knowledge. So it wasn't until he groaned and shifted, rolling off of her—though he didn't move far—that she woke with a start.
She rolled, too, shifting on the cloak so there would be room for his large frame without rolling into the hay itself—which she knew could be extremely itchy when it reached discreet places on the body.
The light outside had grown bright, shafts of sunlight puncturing the old walls were boards had rotted away, or cracked. There were holes in the ceiling where roof tiles had been removed by nature's wildlife, or perhaps her punishing weather.
Sun punctured the shadows of the barn and raised the temperature so that laying next to each other, naked, her cloak only covering their legs, wasn't a problem.
