text: Gently, you place your hand on his shoulder and speak softly
  
  
  "I'm sorry for your loss. I cannot imagine the pain of losing a son, but I am sure he looks down on you from heaven."
  
  
  Acwellen's gaze remains fixed on the burning town, and his face is still set in a mask of stone, but his cheeks are streaked.
  
  
  "Thank you"
  
  
  He exhales shakily, opens his mouth to say something else, then closes it and remains silent, yet the words are plainly on his mind, trying to slip free like hounds on a leash. At last he speaks, grim and quiet, little more than a whisper.
  
  
  "Can we win this battle?"
  
  
  The question hangs there for an eternity, all the fear and anxiety of the English army expressed in the musings of one broken man.
  > You don't know
  Hidden by the dense screen of trees, twelve thousand Norman warriors wait. Each one is battle ready, and battle hardened; professional killers. Within your camp waits fewer than eight thousand men, but of those eight thousand only three thousand can be trusted. The rest are just farmers, weary and ill-disciplined. These are long odds, and even with the high ground, this will be no easy victory. Acwellen is still looking at you, waiting for a response. You shrug grimly.
  
  
  "I don't know Acwellen. I don't know."
  
  
  Behind the screen of trees the town of Hastings roils with flames and the Norman William's horde assembles.