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“Il est impossible de te suivre, tu vas trop vite1,” Clint called, trying to keep up with his traveling companion.
“Dépêche-toi2,” Natasha barked at him over her shoulder.
Clint rankled a little at her casual address, but he supposed she had every right to use such an informal tone with him now. Everything that had marked him as one of the noblesse was now ash that blew across the Anjou countryside. The wound he had received during their escape made it difficult to properly move, but he caught up to her. Natasha’s pale face was covered in scratches and soot - her own souvenirs from the fire. Without horses or a carriage, it was slow going, but Natasha seemed to know where they were going. Clint wondered why she had saved his life, but kept quiet and followed her lead.