And so they struck out.
Most nights, huddled around a small fire, or taking shelter in a kindly farmer barn, they talked about how they’d one day return, pocketfuls of coin and mouthfuls of tale of adventure and danger and heroism.
They imagined the fine clothes they’d wear and the finer horses they’d ride. How no one would recognize them at first, but then would celebrate their homecoming. How the folks would gather around, saying they’d all but given up hope, that they were sure the two of them had somehow perished.
And they’d nod knowingly, smiling to each other.
Prompt courtesy of the Daily Post, Fortune.