A/N: Told by the sandy haired man of chapter three in the third little section. The disclaimer still holds, -owned by Pat Rothfuss, thus, not owned by me.
No Trick of the Memory but a Tale True to Tell
The rest of the caravan makes fun of me. They laugh when I try to tell the story to strangers. It's been a week or two now and they still won't let me live it down. They keep interrupting, discrediting my story by telling listeners that I was drunk.
"But I must tell you; I was drunk that night in Imre too. Cried myself sober afterwards." Could I mistake something like that? Could anyone mistake a voice like that; ocean blue eyes like that? Deep and ageless eyes like an ocean topped with fire, that red hair? Who could he be but Kvothe?
Are you saying I look like Kvothe? The Kvothe? I've always thought so myself. I have an engraving of him in the back. My assistant teases me for it. Would you tell him what you just told me?Was what he said when I asked.
I'd already heard the townsfolk talking. There were some who stopped by. They drank more beer and wine than I did and started whispering.
Demon.Was what they said. The innkeeper, Kote's his name, called 'em scrael. Whatever that is. But it was a demon right enough. Kote put an iron shim to it and it cracked like thunder. The innkeeper, who they said arrived from nowhere, when I asked. The innkeeper, who was only a familiar stranger in a town that small.
But maybe he was just nobody, I thought. There are lots of nobodies in the world.
"I think it was Kvothe. I hope it was Kvothe." Even if I had drunk my weight in wine there is no mistaking. The stones in the river, with all the roaring rapids above them, couldn't mistake a voice like that. A voice with magic in it, a voice you can hear the wind in.
"The world still needs a hero."