He is comfortable here, too, with her beside him and the dark sky above. There is a mouse skittering through the tall grass a few dozen yards from the tree that sits beside the barn, but for the first time in a long time, he has no desire to hunt; no desire to kill.

He has had enough of that for awhile, thank you.



And the only way that owl is getting any cognac is if it flies into the barn with a bottle and pours a glass for itself, because Skellig is not moving again until he absolutely has to.

(Sorry, owl.)