A/N: All characters and everything are owned by Patrick Rothfuss and not me. I'm borrowing them for my entertainment, and hopefully yours. If you haven't read The Name of the Wind and The Wise Man's Fear, you need to before this story will make any sense. This is my vision of how the last "Interlude" session could possibly look.
Chronicler held his pen poised above his paper. The fine Aruean ink that Kvothe had provided him with didn't drip or clog. He could wait minutes without risking his equipment, a rarity for him. Not that the ever-eloquent Kvothe ever seemed to need that long before continuing.
As the seconds continued to tick by, though, the Chronicler grew impatient, then concerned. Many times his source had skimmed interesting stories to focus on what seemed to be trivialities. This couldn't be another such time, could it? He wouldn't dare to brush over this event. Would he?
Wearily, Chronicler dared a quick glance at the stoic innkeeper. He was sitting back, his eyes half-closed and a beatific expression on his face. A better picture of satisfaction and completion, the historian couldn't remember seeing.
He cleared his throat meaningfully. "And…?"
Eyes snapped to his and held him in their grip. "And nothing. That's my story."
"But … but, then, how did you get here? How did you escape from the king's castle?"
Kvothe waved dismissively. "I ran. And found a place to hide. Bast here helped." The darker man smiled almost shyly at the seemingly-unaccustomed praise. "I needed to disappear. This seemed a likely place."
"Why disappear?" The words slipped out of Chronicler's mouth, almost as if their own volition.
The man known as Kote shook his head slowly. "What else is there to do?" His words carried unmistakable tones of finality and futility.
Never one to shy away from a story, however, Chronicler didn't take the obvious hint. "Everything." He gestured grandly at the surrounding space. "Destroy the Chandrian. Find love again. Discover more names. Anything but cower between wooden walls while the whole world falls apart."
Whatever reaction Chronicler had expected, and he could never be really sure what that was, the low rumbling chuckle that greeted him was not it. "You've seen me the last few days. I can't defeat a simple ruffian. How would I travel safely? Or face something as deadly as one of the Seven, let alone all of them together?"
Chronicler nodded sarcastically. "Oh, yes, I've watched you. Watched you cook and clean and polish. But you've taken no time to do your Ketan. Or practice sympathy to hone your Alar. You've played no note of music. Nothing. When I was writing your story," he thumped the impressive pile of paper with an open hand, "nothing stood out to me so much as your character's ceaseless drive to improve himself, to be the best, no matter the obstacles." Looking pointedly into the most dangerous eyes in existence, he drew in a deep breath. "What happened to that man? Or does he exist only in stories, like Taborlin the Great?"
Bast was nearly frothing at the mouth. "That will be quite enough from you. You came to get a story. You got it. Now get out." He snarled and looked ready to bite the older man.
Chronicler's fury raged unabated. He spun on the Fae. "And you! You're just as bad, prodding with one hand and coddling with the other." In a poor imitation of the other's voice, he preened on, "'Oh, Reshi, that's too dangerous. Don't risk yourself for such a poor cause.' But that concern about danger doesn't stop you from bribing soldiers to try to rouse his anger. Or from cleaning up a poor innkeeper's messes for him, enabling him to continue making bad choices."
Bast stood open-mouthed in dumbfounded horror and anger, but his master was quick to recover. "No wonder you were able to get my money back so easily." A wry shake of his head punctuated his words. "Next time, could you find a less painful way to get my attention? I'm just an old innkeeper after all."
An individual studying emotions could have written an entire dissertation on those that crossed Chronicler's face in quick succession – the last vestiges of anger turned to light amusement which grew into confusion leading to concern. Concern morphed into disbelief which in turn paled into unwilling acceptance – with other emotions with no names thrown in for good measure. He finally settled into a penetrating stare at Kote. "It takes one heck of an actor to completely fool his audience. You've done that here. But, as is your wont, you went above and beyond, didn't you? You didn't stop at fooling everyone else. No, you had to go the extra mile and fool yourself."
The verbal sparring after that spiraled quickly into a bitter emotional morass from which nothing can escape, as these types of conversations tend to do. Fortunately for the Chronicler, both Bast and Kvothe heard and recognized enough truth that they physically restrained themselves quite nicely. The cut on his arm was barely two inches long and not that deep. And furniture can be replaced.
Late that night, though, after Bast and Chronicler had headed to sleep, Kote lay awake in his bed, staring at the ceiling. His thoughts were a jumble, without clear direction. Most clearly, he could remember the panic in Elodin's voice when Kvothe had asked about changing his own name. "What? What have you done? God's bones, boy..." He mulled over his actions of the previous days and then longer, weeks and even months. That led him to a deep contemplation of his self – had he ceased being Kvothe and become Kote?
The resolution to that question was inevitable – he had changed and more than just his actions. It was difficult to determine when he had ceased playing a role and had fully succumbed to being another person, but it had happened. That much was clear, even to a dullish innkeeper.
Changing one's true name and thought patterns is never easy. Even returning to what had once been as comfortable as an old pair of moccasins feels strange and different. Like old clothes that haven't been worn in a long time, the fit of an old mentality is initially uncomfortable – thought patterns can chafe like seams that once aligned perfectly with toughened skin. However, given time and focus, which even old Kote had in ample supply, a name change can be accomplished.
Through the night, he spoke to himself an always-changing litany of "I am Kvothe. I am Edema Ruh. I am a Master Artificer and Master Sympathist. I loved Denna. I visited Felurian. I am Kvothe. I am not Kote. I am Edema Ruh. I am the one who inspires fear in demons. I am Kvothe."
When morning dawned, Bast and Chronicler stumbled downstairs where hard, glinting eyes met their questioning looks. Red hair which only a few hours earlier had seemed lifeless now gleamed with barely-contained malevolence and fury. A thin shimmer of sweat covered a man moving slowly through a series of moves which looked suspiciously like combat in slow motion.
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