Emberwood being born with a talent or an inclination for goodness is the aberration

The hopes and expectations of peace in a new land were dashed away. Æthelwulf swiftly found himself swimming in the bleak reality that the greener grass was merely a trick of the light, and inner demons followed no matter where you went. He shouldered the weight willingly, for at least he was far from those he failed.

For now, at least.

Like called to like, and the bastard knight found himself trailing toward the sounds of turmoil and ragged breaths. He observed the broken mess he found silently, at first. Save your pity, some frigid part of him urged. He probably deserved it.

Unable to cast the first stone, Wulf let his eyes trail along the wounded stranger in stoic consideration. There was little he could do in terms of the physical - he'd only ever opened flesh, never worked to close it. But perhaps the deepest scars were internal. Æthelwulf thought himself a good man, and good men offered their backs to bear the weight of others, even if their legs already trembled from their own.

"It'll pass," he offered. It was useless to tell the stranger it would get better, as this was a lie more foul that anything else he could dream up. Pain, like storms, came and went upon its own accord. He didn't need to know what happened - he didn't care, and it didn't matter. Perhaps, when he learned to turn the tables of time to rewrite the past, he'd want to know more of it. For now? Confessions only served to muddy the waters.

"Some day."