"Hey! You!"
Why won't anyone let me sleep in peace?
"You can't stay here."
Soren is almost embarrassed for the guard on duty. He shields his eyes, squinting against the sun as he looks upward. Despite the guard's attempt at intimidation, Soren is unfazed.
"I'm not bothering anyone," he says, not as a plea, but as fact.
"Come on," the guard says. It's obvious which one of them is begging. "Get a move on."
Grunting, Soren picks himself up, brushing the dust from his cloak. It had been two days camped out at Tor Garen, and he is honestly surprised no one has said anything previously. Turning from the guard without a word, he swings his bag of provisions mindlessly as he makes his way down the fortress wall.
He stops short and turns toward the guard, who has yet to move from his position. "The security here is terrible," he says suddenly. "Does anyone actually defend this border?"
"I do," the guard says, standing up straighter.
"Hmph." He wonders why he bothered saying anything; it was a pointless comment. Accurate, yet pointless. He shakes his head and moves again toward Begnion.
"Hey, wait," he hears behind him. "Who are you?"
"Why?" Soren doesn't turn around.
"It's just…" he pauses. "There are stories. Tales of a hero, long ago."
"I am familiar with them." He remains looking out toward Begnion; he does not want the guard to see his flushed cheeks.
"Did you know him?"
Finally Soren turns; he stands too far from the man for either to read the other's face. "How old do you think I am?"
"It's not that." The guard fumbles over his words. "But the lore says he had a companion. A mage. I don't know; I guess it doesn't make sense. I don't know why I thought of it."
Soren considers telling the truth. Revealing everything to this nameless man. After all, it has been nearly a year since he has had a proper conversation.
He changes his mind. "It's not completely ridiculous." He shrugs. "I guess they could still be alive."
Was that the best he could come up with? Crossing into Begnion, he considers everything he could have said to the guard.
Yes, it was me.
We captured this fortress once.
We left Tellius.
Your hero is dead.
Then again, perhaps it was better to leave things open-ended.
Begnion wasn't part of the plan. He always hated Begnion. But he refused to go anywhere he could be potentially comfortable, because he didn't deserve it. Self-inflicted pain. Where better to torture yourself than Begnion?
A huge shadow crosses the sun, a hawk or raven passing him overhead. Against the blazing light, it is difficult to tell which from just its silhouette. He is assumedly en route to Serenes, if he calculates correctly.
Of course he calculates correctly.
Soren watches the bird grow smaller in the sky, advancing toward the horizon. A few more follow behind, catching up with their leader. Definitely hawks. A lone feather flutters to the ground not far from where he stands. He waits to see if any turn back, to stare at him as he stares at them, but they never pause in their travel. Soren resumes walking. He desperately has to find a decent place to sleep. His pouch of gold is growing lighter, but he should have enough to stay at an inn for a few nights. There has been a surprising lack of abandoned buildings along the way. In the old days, the entire mercenary company could camp at an abandoned fort for a week without anyone taking notice. Now that each country has undergone rebuilding, there are few places left for a lone traveler such as himself.
This was poor planning.
He wanders into a bustling town, dodging chattering women and their burly husbands. He passes by any open market that has food—he can't be bothered spending any more funds on provisions. He locates the town inn, inquiring after a room for a few nights. The room comes with meals; he is determined to sleep until at least supper.
As Soren makes an agreement with the innkeeper, he senses someone watching him nearby. He lowers his head as he rummages for his gold, his long hair covering his face. He is almost at the stairs toward his room when a young girl approaches him.
"Excuse me," she says, quietly. Soren, disgruntled, turns toward her. She's not unattractive. Her dark red hair falls to her shoulders, matching the color of her eyes. She clutches a heavy tome; fire, it appears. Maybe a little shy; definitely nervous about confronting this stranger.
"Can I help you with something?" Soren asks. Try to be civil.
"Are you Soren?"
It is not a question he anticipated. He stares at the girl, torn between the truth and complete ignorance. She appears to be gentle; there was no malice in her query. Only curiosity.
"Do I know you?" He asks, finally, trying to keep the contempt out of his voice.
She flashes a knowing smile, a sign of relief. "Can we talk?" Despite not knowing anything about her, including her name, he jerks his head toward the staircase to instruct her to follow. It doesn't make sense, but he hardly cares. When they approach his rented room, he is grateful that there is a small table and chair in the corner. He takes the chair, dropping his bag on the table, and she is left with only the lumpy bed to sit on.
"I'll ask again," he says, plainly. "Do I know you?"
"I'm not surprised you wouldn't remember me," she says, directing her gaze out the window. "It's been many years."
"I haven't spoken to anyone in—"
"I know," she interrupts.
"You can't know."
Her tome is lying flat across her lap, and she mindlessly opens its cover. The pages are old and worn, and he is ashamed that it took him so long to realize how ancient this book is.
"Do you know what to do with that?" He asks.
"A little. Mama was a first-class mage."
"How touching." She looks up from her tome; his words have obviously stung. For once, he hadn't intended on being so . . . direct. "You might as well stop being so mysterious and tell me who you are. You obviously have my attention. No one knows my name anymore."
"So you are Soren," she says, smiling down at her book. "You didn't say anything before."
"I'm aware of that."
She hesitates, staring at his face. "Amy. My name is Amy."
It still takes a moment to realize who she is. Just the name alone wouldn't have meant anything, but she mentioned her mother. And the ancient tome. Outside the Greil Mercenaries, there were few he spoke to—unless they were associated with the war.
"You weren't recruited?" he asks, bluntly.
"Funny word for it," she says. "I lived with Mama and Papa for a long time, but they're gone now. I stayed in Crimea after they passed, and our neighbors knew of my brand but didn't resent me for it."
"So it is acceptable now?" He asks. "I can't believe it."
"It took a while, I admit. I took over Mama's bar and the patrons loved me there, but some people were still uneasy with my presence. The children, especially; I could sense that they felt weird about growing older when I did not."
"So you left."
Amy smiles. "There was a standing invitation. He sought me out years ago. I wasn't prepared at the time, but now I'm ready to go to home."
Soren leans back in his chair, balancing on its two back legs with his palms pressed against the wall behind him. The brickwork is rough against his skin, and for a while it is the only thing he can concentrate on. Amy is patient. She stares out the window, but watches him from her peripheral vision. It fascinates her how little he has changed. His identity is obvious, of course, but his appearance is so near to that she remembers from so long ago. Doesn't he have dragon blood in his veins? Dragons live for centuries. She wonders how long he'll be trapped in this world.
"I need to go," she says, suddenly, rising from the bed. "Do you want to come?"
His chair falls back to the ground, the sound of its descent startling her. She fumbles the tome and it drops, emitting a puff of dust as it hits the floor.
"I have no home," he says, plainly. He watches her retrieve the book, dusting off the back cover with her cloak. "Go. It is where you belong."
"And you?" She asks, once again clutching her book. "Where do you belong?"
