Collecting Legends

by Shadowy Star

Legend Twelve

He was on his way back to his hotel, far enough of Jaggonath's always crowded, deafening-loud city center. It was early in the morning, and only few shops had already opened. No people were to be seen at all. He'd spent the night no, not in a bar for a change, trying to fill that hole in his chest that had replaced his heart with alcohol, but in the city library. He had been researching old myths about nameless travelers, trying to solve the mystery he'd heard of in each town on his way back. Gerald had talked to that woman in Sheva, Joanna Something, and to other dae and inn owners down the road and to that journalist, Larissa What-was-her-name as well. Their tales were pretty much the same: a man appearing out of nowhere to help and disappearing again when his help was no longer needed. 'As if something perfect is now lost to the world', that woman Larissa had said about the man. And Raphael Cerys, a tourist whose party had been also rescued by the mysterious man, had described his eyes as 'so distant no serenity could reach them'. Never seen a crush of more epic proportions, Gerald thought now, smiling despite his heavy heart. And then there was something the very worldly Dr. Denari had remarked about the stranger searching for something… Well, as was he. Only that for Gerald his own search was to dull the pain in his heart.

The librarian, a kind old woman –if he didn't mistreat her books, that is,– , had found him fallen asleep over a pile of books and thrown him out, giving him a strict order not to come again till he'd gotten enough sleep. He was working hard since he'd found out that work was a much better drug than alcohol. Back from Yamas, he remembered having drunk heavily through one night or other before the futility of such attempts had finally occurred to him. Waking up with a bad hung over the next morning had been indeed a new experience for him since he'd never allowed himself to lose control like this before. It was back then that he'd discovered it didn't matter to him whether or not he lost control anymore until his work had offered him another method of keeping the world out.

He'd found out he could force himself to forget the fact of Damien's death for a while if he got completely absorbed by his studies. Then he could convince himself that his friend was still alive, somewhere out there and perhaps getting himself into trouble. If he tried, he almost could believe it. The fact that indeed he'd seen Damien's grave had changed nothing. It was that tiny spark of disbelief that continued to prevent him from introducing himself to the very next stranger with his true name and thus put an end to his existence.

He didn't look up while walking and simply let his feet find the way. Now he realized they had taken him to one of the old northern districts. A weapon shop nearby caught his eye. 'Weapons of all kind' the bright marquee run. Someone stood in front of it, obviously regarding the goods behind a thick glass, the reins of a horse in a half-gloved hand. Gerald came to a halt in the shadows on the opposite site and watched. He couldn't tell what caused him to do so, only that it felt as if there was a faint tugging at his soul.

The person was a tall slender man with shoulder long auburn hair. For Gerald only saw his back from where he stood he couldn't tell more about the other man's appearance. His broad shoulders spoke of strength, his frame of a kind of power beyond that. He wore practical, not expensive but well-made clothes, pants of soft brown leather and a beige-colored cotton shirt. His riding boots were covered with dust and so was the hem of his dark woolen cloak. He'd thrown it back over a shoulder where a bag was hanging that looked much like its owner knew very well how to travel. As the man leaned a bit forward to study the swords, his cloak swing more aside and a pistol on a leather belt could be seen. Then he straightened again and stood motionlessly for a moment as if considering entering the shop.

Wait a minute ... a tall man with auburn hair. Wasn't that how they'd described that mysterious stranger in the North?

The stranger seemed to nod to himself and entered the shop.

And the man once called Gerald Tarrant stood completely perplexed for a moment, then crossed the street and headed for the shop.

Gerald entered the store. The walls showed various kinds of weapons and arms from beginning of Ernan history to current developments. The man stood in front of a glass case with apparently old swords.

"Good morning, Mer," the shop assistant said, giving him a welcoming if somewhat overslept-appearing nod. "If you don't mind to wait for a minute…"

The man didn't react at all, seemingly lost in his examination.

Gerald's eyes fixed on that tall, slender shape –at the moment the other held a heavy broad blade in his right–, and he dismissively waved his hand at the assistant, striding over to other glass cases that lined the opposite wall, containing diverse knifes and daggers. There he put his hands on the edge of the case next to him and turned halfway, not even pretending to regard the blades. His attention never left him.

Just now the other completed a complex parrying gesture on an imagined opponent that told of years of practice.

"Too massive for me," he said, sounding clearly disappointed and returned the sword expertly, hilt forward, to the assistant. "If you could show me this one?" he asked, pointing somewhere to his left.

For a couple of minutes Gerald couldn't do anything but watch. The features of his face still hidden in shadows, the other man stood there with a sword in his hand, perfectly in balance, feet as steady as if anchored, prepared to fight. His movements were those of a skilled warrior – flowing and of that particular elegance only achieved by years of training and experience. Gerald couldn't define it precisely, but there was something fleeting, almost undetectable about them that seemed oddly familiar to him. The man definitely knew the matter – Gerald could tell from his every question, from the way he hold every single blade, the well shaped muscles of his arm instinctively adapting to the weight, to how the line of his shoulders changed very sligthly to adjust to each sword. It was more a hint of a feeling than an impression, causing a strange resonance within his mind. Why not at last? His ordered, organized mind immediately started to analyze the subject. He was a consummate fighter himself and had already spent almost three years traveling in company of an excellent sword fighter. He'd never said so out loud, but Damien had been more than worthy of his champion grade in the Order. …And now it's far too late, he thought. To think Damien's name hurt more than everything that had been done to him back in Hell… Consequently, it wasn't that strange at all that gestures of a warrior reminded him of an other. The way the other man ran his slender fingers along the cool metal, checking its quality…

Unable of thinking straight away, occupied with his observation, Gerald acted instinctively.

"I would like to take a closer look at this springbolt," he said to the shop assistant who hurried past him to put down more swords from the walls and to bring them to the other man, then he gripped the mentioned piece of weaponry from its place and stepped closer.

At that the man turned to him so fast it seemed he'd been waiting for that very moment to come, and Gerald froze in mid-movement, nearly dropping the weapon. The moment stretched out to what seemed to be an entire eternity until the other finally moved, tilting his head slightly. The gesture also seemed familiar, somehow. The other's eyes still in shadows so he couldn't tell their color the man seemed to examine whatever he was looking at intensively, as if comparing it with something else. That gave Gerald the opportunity to regard his face more intently.

He was young –no more than twenty-five, possibly younger– and handsome, no, scratch that, beautiful. Simply breathtaking. Smooth, soft skin of a warm deep gold, much lighter than his own olive hue. Waves of vividly auburn, shoulder-long hair, shining with red gold highlights where the light of the sun and the Core touched it, were tied to a ponytail on the back of his neck. Some strands had escaped the ribbon meant to fasten them and were now falling around a face with perfectly shaped features. Nothing in his behavior told Gerald the other was aware of his own beauty. Tall, perfectly muscled, he took Gerald's breath away. Without thinking anymore, he took two steps across the room, feeling himself as if being drawn to the other man by an invisible force far beyond every logical explanation.

"I wouldn't buy that springbolt if I were you," the man remarked suddenly after taking a short look of an expert at the weapon. A simple statement, not even a comment, his voice a rich tenor, steady, almost comforting...

Gerald had expected everything but that. "Why not?" he asked, hiding his confusion.

"That one is made in Yamas' old manufacture which had never been a good one," the other said by way of explanation. "Not the best wood for making springbolts or crossbows there, you know. If I might make a suggestion I would prefer that one. Solid Western quality from the other side of the Dividers." He pointed at a well-made-looking if doubtless second-handed one that hung on the wall at his right. Gerald cast a glance at the weapon just to forget it completely the very next second as the possible implications of the other man's words sank in.

"So you're from Yamas, then?" he asked hoarsely, quite successfully trying to clear his throat.

"Yes," the other said lightly. Then, less lightly. "I was born in there."

"I visited that town once, it seemed to be nasty – little wonder, that near to the Forest," Gerald said, holding his voice even, clearly remembering his passage north.

"Yamas has changed, now with the Forest burning," the other man replied. "Too many tourists and those who make money of tourism."

"So it's still burning?" he asked causally.

The stranger nodded. "And it will keep burning for months, I suppose. Why?"

"As a loremaster I'm always interested in news and information."

For a brief moment the other man looked surprised –which was odd, Gerald thought– before his expression changed and he nodded again more to herself. "Are you from nearby the Forest as well?" he asked interestedly.

His thoughts racing, Gerald, again, managed to keep his face emotionless only by long years of exercise. The conversation proceeded not the way he'd expected.

"Yes, one could say so," he answered as calmly as possible. To discuss that subject wasn't a good idea at all. Having no chance to consider his options, he took the first on his mind. Maybe that man could tell…? Maybe he'd been there as… maybe he knew something about Damien? After arriving at Yamas Gerald hadn't dared proceeding investigations beyond the simple curiosity of a tourist. And the answers he'd got hadn't been satisfying at all. This might be his last opportunity to find out more. "Were you in Yamas a month ago?" he asked, his heart aching with sharp, almost unbearable pain. Well, to discuss that wasn't any better an idea either.

"Yes," the stranger said. Nothing more.

Cautiously Gerald glanced at the other. Only one single step parted them, filled with tension he'd never experienced before. The other man didn't look at him. In fact he seemed to avoid meeting his eyes.

Then the minute detail of their conversation he'd failed to notice before hit him like the proverbial brick. Solid western quality, he'd said. Western…

„Who are you? " he asked, forcing every bit of self-control into his voice to hold it even.

Finally, the young man looked at him out of beautiful jade-green eyes. Understanding, and strength and a special, well known sort of kindness shone in those eyes – and something different, more distant and hidden, more intensive and fragile at the same time. Oh, why seemed these eyes that familiar to him? Last time he'd seen those feelings in a gaze that had rested on him, it had been the eyes of the one man he ever loved in his lifetime… The man who saved –in every meaning of the word– not only his life but also his soul.

The young man smiled as warmly as the sun rays that played upon his skin, causing Gerald to wish to drown himself in this warmth. And once again there was something doubtless and indescribable familiar in his smile – the way how it lightened his face perhaps or how it melted away every wall Gerald had built around his heart or how it brought once again sense into his life. He'd never expected to see that smile again.

„I am who I am," the man said, still smiling. "Just like you."

The world under his feet seemed to give Gerald his own personal earthquake as everything finally settled itself into a pattern.

TBC…