The Thousand Year Promise
Promise me, Ned.
When Bran woke, he did so reluctantly. Once more, The Three Eyed Raven cut short a memory he was more than curious to see; his father, young and bold ascending the steps of a tower, farther south than he had ever been. Ser Arthur Dayne's body was left in his wake, cooking in the hot summer sun. The Sword of the Morning had lived up to what Lord Eddard sold him as, a finer swordsman than most, only to be stabbed in the back by Howland Reed, saving his disarmed father from a premature execution.
'After all you've shown me, you stop there?' Bran queried in his frustration, the woman's voice a bell, chiming still in his thoughts. It echoed faint, shrill and weak. She was dying, Bran deduced.
'You are not ready yet. First you must see more. Only then can you understand,' the old man preached back. He had done a lot of that, and always after hiding the past from him.
'This was important, I know it. My Aunt Lyanna was in that tower, wasn't she? My father…he found her on her deathbed.' Bran had heard the tales about how Rhaegar Targaryan had kidnapped his father's sister, Robert Baratheon's betrothed, and scurried her away to a tower near Dorne. He remembered fondly Maester Luwin nagging at him in his lessons, teaching him the histories of Robert's rebellion and the reign of The Mad King, and all the battles his father had fought in. Yet their were some stories he was never told, and his curiosities were haunting him.
'We will see more on the morrow. Now, you must rest,' the old man said, frozen inside his roots and branches, with a face of ice; showing no hint of emotion. His pale, frail body tangled between the paler roots, sunk into what looked to almost be a chair. Or a throne. A throne of the real north. A throne I shan't live my life in, gods give me strength.
'He's right, Bran,' Jojen seconded. 'The visions will take their toll if you aren't careful. The roots may take you to places you would not wish to see again. Your eyes may behold things that would change a man, forever. Dark secrets live amongst the faces, secrets meant for no men to hear.'
'It would be a welcomed sight. How am I to stop The Others inside of this cave?' He glanced at Leaf. After all he'd seen on the journey to the great weirwood, the children of the forest stilled awed him slightly, whether it was their woodland like appearance, or the fact they still lived in this world, in this time. Bran was not sure what it was about them, but they awed him. 'You've shown me how The White Walkers were created, why not show me how to defeat them?'
'Because you aren't ready, Brandon Stark,' Leaf shrieked. 'The Others were made using powerful magic, and The Night King himself will do all he can to stop you. They are evil creatures, who pray on the living. Their thirst for blood is only quenched by death.'
'Then why bring them into the world?' His question parried the forest child into a shameful silence. He remembered the vision, it was almost like a dream but it was realer; his screams were vivid and ear bloodying. The Children had infused a dragonglass dagger into his heart, turning it to ice along with the rest of him. They had birthed a true evil, none like Westeros had seen before, which was just as relevant now. Finally, Leaf spoke.
'To protect ourselves from you.' Leaf had a queer smile on its face, an evil one Bran thought. 'Our people were butchered by men, our Gods torn up from the earth and burned. We needed to defend ourselves…so we did. The White Walkers were made to kill the living. But they have turned into far more evil and bitter creatures than we ever intended,' she said, her bark looking smile fading into a sad pout.
Her testimony was irrelevant now however. 'Show me the world years from now, let me see what happens after the long night.' Bran was ever as eager and impatient.
'No!' The Three Eyed Raven snapped at him. 'The day is done, the sun sets in the sky and you must rest. Go now, we will continue in the morning. Hodor, take him.' At the old man's command, Hodor entered and scooped Bran up without mustering so much as a squirm of struggle.
As Hodor carried him off to the north most part of the cave, their acting quarters, he overheard the mutterings behind him. It wasn't quite clear, Leaf sounded doubtful, but the old man settled the matter altogether.
When they arrived, Mira had made a fire, which sat battling frosty breezes roaring through the cave tunnels, a basilisk of cold. Hodor sat him down next to it. Bran felt the blaze on his face, watering his eyes upon a glance. Jojen sat opposite him, next to his sister.
'It's too big,' he complained.
'Then sit further away,' Mira teased. 'You're sulking.'
'I am not. He shows me things that I care about and then whisks me off before I can take any of it in,' Bran had a whine in his voice, he could hear it bounce of the walls. I'm not sulking, he reassured himself.
'Go too deep and you'll not want to comeback. You'll forget what is real and live in past. That cannot happen and you cannot lose yourself because we need you, Bran. Everyone needs you,' Jojen lectured.
He spent the most of the night silent, pondering the war stories father had his wolf pups sit down to, in front of the hearth at Winterfell. Whilst they dined on Summer and Mira's morning kill, a feast of tasteless meat, Elk maybe, and a slab of hard cheese they'd stashed since Winterfell, Bran had swords and heroes battling in his daydreams. Sir Arthur Dayne had been a splendid knight at arms, and he'd always known father had beaten him in single combat, but not quite in that fashion. Stabbed in the back by Howland Reed, then slain with his own Dawn by father. No wonder father never boasted as other men would have. Bran slept wondering what mysteries beheld that tower near Dorne…and when he woke, nothing had changed.
'Hodor,' he whispered, in attempt not to ruse the others. But the stable boy was deep in his slumber still. Frustrated by his bleak and boring surroundings, he dragged his body and lifeless legs across the dirt towards the rear exit of the cave. The old oaken door creaked loudly as he struggled to open it. Damn these useless legs. Damn them to all the hells there are. Winter winds hissed through, clawing at his face, as he crawled outside, raking his way to a quiet spot where the waking sun was visible.
The sunrise was spectacular in the north, with a stream of green winds whooshing around the sky above, looking like emerald dragon fire. Mira came after she'd woken up to catch the sun paint the sky pink. Her hair was matted from her sleep, and the night needed washing from her eyes. She smiled at him when she saw him.
'Mira. It's early, why are you awake?' She sat beside him. Summer came with her; he seemed to have grown fond of her.
'Breakfast won't catch itself. Will you come today?' She tussled between Summer's ears as his eyes went foggy and relaxed.
'No. The Raven must show me what lies in that tower. It's important…I can feel it in my bones,' he raised an arm and watched his hairs prickle up.
'What have you seen so far?' An obvious question, yet she was the first who asked.
He smiled. 'My father…and yours. When they were as young as my brothers.'
She smiled back. 'The Reeds have always served your house as faithful friends. My father spoke of yours often, and only with kindness. What was happening?'
'Fighting…Against The Sword of The Morning…' Bran always wished he could fight like that, once, before he fell.
'My father never spoke much of the war…though perhaps for the right reasons.' She got up and put her hands on his cheeks, before leaning down to place a kiss on his forehead. 'I hope you find what you are looking for,' she said as she bounded off, Summer at her heels.
He was glad, he'd turned red with blush. His stomach fluttered full of butterflies, whilst he watched her canter away. He snapped his neck to find Hodor watching with an innocent smirk, but he only said 'Hodor.' She kissed me? For luck? He poked at his useless legs, cursing their existence. The day I can hunt alongside her without looking through Summer's eyes.
'Take me back, Hodor,' he commanded.
'Hodor,' he replied.
They made haste to the trees heart, where sat no differently from any other day, The Three Eyed Raven was locked into his constant position. Gods, at least I can move some of me.
'Take me back to that tower, I must know what happened there,' Bran asserted, but he wasn't Lord of Winterfell here, nor a prince of the north.
'Another time. Before, you must know of a promise. One a thousand years old and beyond that even,' he spoke it almost proudly, smug that he knows these ancient things. Bran would be less bitter minded had he simply let Bran see what he wanted. But Bran knew The Three Eyed Raven did things in his own time and he would simply have to wait, gritting his teeth at the notion all the while.
'I want to see my Aunt Lyanna. She's in the tower, isn't she? It's where Rhaegar held her captive? It's where she died?' Bran had been trying to piece it together, and those were the questions he wanted answered most. 'I know you know these things, and I know you can show me.'
'You seem to know a great many things yourself. You will not learn more. You will learn everything,' said the old man, triggering Bran to rage.
'EVERYTHING ABOUT WHAT?!' His frustration exploded out of him at that point. All the riddles had cast him angry.
'All that there is, all that there was and all that there will be…but only when you are truly ready to do so. If you see through angry eyes, you may not see what your are supposed to.'
Cooling quickly, true to the Stark name, Bran yielded. 'Fine, show me what you will.'
'I shall. You will lead in time Bran, believe me. That is what is promised, as is more. Now I will teach you. Come, take the root. See how the lion does what it needs to stay strong and to survive,' the old man said, nodding towards one of the many milk coloured bones from the great weirwood above.
Bran did as he was bid, firmly clutching hold of the white root. As his hand grew cold, his eyes rolled back and he was in the cave no more. His eyes opened and before him was a great oaken door, amongst a castle in chaos. Cries were coming from within, the sounds of men dying from elsewhere, pleading for their lives, and they died screaming mercy.
'Where are we?' He saw red walls all over, a keep of much importance he guessed.
'You'll see, enter,' the Raven prompted.
He opened the doors leading to a throne room, crowded by maybe ten people, Knights mostly, armed to brink in stunning snowy armour. Dragon skulls paved their way towards the throne, forged from a thousand enemy swords, black as night and uglier than any chair. Kings Landing. It's the Iron Throne…and The Mad King, Bran noticed.
Bran walked down the throne room, the skulls of long dead winged beasts growing bigger towards The Iron Throne, whilst a flurry of chaotic screams chanted through the creaking doors behind him; a bewildered Kings Landing panicked in the streets below. The King hurled orders to the countless men at his feet. Sat in the Iron Throne, a seat of dark steel, with a thousand sharpened teeth emerging from its core, the Mad King Aerys Targaryan barked commands like a vicious dog, hungering for fire and blood.
'Your grace, we urged you not trust them. They are sacking the city. They'll soon be on our doorstep,' one man wept, in a squeaky plea.
'What are your orders, my King,' a calm knight prompted.
'I WANT HIS HEAD! I WANT THEM BURNED!' The blood lust Lord of the Seven Kingdoms raged to his inferiors gathered below, some on their knees, begging for surrender, others silent and stone.
'Lannister! Bring me your traitor father's head, boy,' Aerys ordered, to a familiar knight, donning the glorious gleaming armour of the Kingsguard. It's Ser Jaime Lannister, Bran recognised. The things I do for love, echoed a voice, though Bran didn't know the source.
'It's the sack of Kings Landing, when Lord Tywin stormed the city, and my father,' he announced, his ears peeled towards a thousand forged swords, and the man who sat upon them.
'It is,' the old man humbly reassured.
The whole throne room was on a knifepoint, knives sharper than the steel on its throne, and in this moment of peril, all these men needed a leader, a King; to guide them, spur them, inspire bravery and defend their city. That's what his father would have done, Robb and Jon too he expected.
But all they had was a bitter, twisted, old mad King, dark voices chiming in his head, who ordered his citizens, the army sacking him, his court, all burned alive, as easy as a knight armed with Valyrian steel could slice through cheese.
The argument at the foot of throne grew more heated, men raising their voices, urging to be heard by someone, but Ser Jaime and Aerys Targaryan himself stood above them all, their curses rung louder by a half at least.
'I won't do it, he is my father,' the golden haired Ser Jaime disobeyed. 'Surrender the castle! Protect your people!'
'Spit on my grave before I yield this castle to the lions or the wolves! All shall kneel before the dragon, or die screaming and burning! Your father's head, boy, bring it to me now or you shall burn as well, Lannister!' The Mad King had turned almost purple with rage, his crazed eyes seemed to melt a hole wherever he looked. Even his bravest men at arms squirmed at his stare.
A frail, decrepit, skeleton of a man scaled the steps on knees that looked to buckle at a moments notice. 'You summoned me, Your Grace,' he squeaked, with a keen smirk plastered across his mouth of rotten teeth.
'Wisdom, burn them all! Burn them in their houses, burn them in their beds! Burn them all!' Already, Ser Jaime seemed forgotten to Aerys. Over and over he simply commanded 'burn them all.'
The young knight drew his sword and buried it deep into Aerys's 'Wisdom', the old sack of bones dying almost instantly. The Mad King bounded from The Iron Throne, looking to flee like a spooked horse, but Sir Jaime was on him in a second, and committed the act that had made him so famous. Don't look away, father will know if you do, Jon told him. Bran made sure not flinch as the man drove his bloodied sword into The Mad King's back. Kingslayer, spat Eddard Stark.
No, father, Bran argued Ned Stark's voice, no true King would slaughter the innocents, or ask a man to kill his own father. His murder was for the greater good. But Ser Jaime Lannister had a firm grip on his memories, Bran knew, and he knew this was not the Kingslayers most significant act. Not to Bran anyway. The things I do for love, a cocky voice preached.
The screams grew grand in the streets outside but the throne room stood silent, bar one, a King who lay dying in a pool of his blood, on the steps below his own chair, kept on. 'Burn them all,' he said, croaking so much it sounded a whisper. 'Burn them all! Burn them all!'
Before Bran could see what happened next, he felt a cold hand on his shoulder, warping him back to his bleak reality. His eyes returned to the cave, the constant reminder of his useless legs. My prison, Bran cursed.
'If you regard your own reality as a prison, you'll forget what it's like to be real. You serve no purpose in this world by reliving long lost histories,' the old man wretched on, reading his thoughts somehow.
'Ser Jaime…he pushed me from the tower…he made me this, all because I saw something I wasn't supposed to,' Bran was sure of it by now. The things I do for love…the words he heard almost always before he fell and woke.
'That is true,' the old man bluntly replied. 'Another?'
'Yes,' he agreed, before clenching another root.
When he woke, this time, the room was dark in most places, save for a dozen candles, all with red veiled witches behind them. They stood in a circle with one hailing from the centre, her necklace bright and blinding, a flaming ruby, the size of an apple.
'The long summer looks to end, and in its stead comes a longer winter. For generations, a promise of a son to be born into this world has been prophesied, a son of fire, a warrior of light, Azor Ahai reborn, to step forth and wield the legendary Lightbringer against the darkness.' Bran noted how the woman walked the floor as if she owned the world, confident and demanding the gaze of all who listened.
'R'holler has lashed the mark; a hail from the bleeding sky announces his coming. A promise emanated from a thousand years ago has emerged in our lifetime. The Prince that was Promised, Azor Ahai, has risen, and we must find him, and heed his will.' The others muttered back in a graceful tongue Bran did not recognise.
He remembered the red mark in the sky however. He recalled how Osha said it was to mark the coming of dragons, though the people of Winterfell named it a tribute to his late Lord father, a symbol of blood. He wasn't sure what it meant truthfully, but the rest of the world had their own idea what it meant, some bizarre, others plain boring. He liked the idea of dragons sighting their mark on the sky.
'Priestess Mellisandre,' the red garbed woman declared, as another strode forward.
'The Lord of Light demands you sail to Westeros, seek out the one true king of the Seven Kingdoms. Determine whether he lives up to the role and bring back to the Temple of R'holler for examination. You seek a King, born amidst salt and smoke, born of fire and ice,' the red woman in the middle said.
'As our Lord commands, High Priestess,' replied the one hailed Mellisandre. She withdrew immediately, with a smirk she tried to mask.
'You priest, step forth,' the High Priestess ordered, and the burgundy garbed man did accordingly. 'Thoros of Myr has failed in his quest and now is silent. You will go to Westeros too, find him, and escort him back. I want to know why he did not achieve his mission and
why he failed to return upon doing so.'
'I shall, High Priestess,' the man said, bowing courteously, then stepping back. The High Priestess in the temple of R'Holler continued to assign a series of tasks, all predominantly tactics in which to spread the influence of their religion. As for the Prince that was Promised, Bran had heard rumours of Stannis Baratheon taking up with a Priestess from Asshai, a red woman, like the ones that stood before him now. Perhaps that meant Stannis was thought to be their prince of sorts, and he still claimed the Seven Kingdoms.
'What do you see?' The Raven asked him bluntly.
'I don't see anything,' Bran replied, dim to the room.
'What you see is a prophesy recited, echoed through time, ringing in the ears of now. A prince to save them, to fight his natural sworn enemy, the God of death itself,' the old man preached.
'The God of death is The Night King. They believe Stannis is to fight him?' Bran was curious of this religion, so foreign to his own; his gods were of ice and salt, theirs fire and smoke.
'Perhaps. Or perhaps they are wrong,' he replied, lifting an arm up. 'Come.'
Bran took his arm and his eyes opened beneath towers charred black, the aftermath of a brutal dragon attack. Harrenhal, Bran realised. A crowd of roaring fans emanated from outside the main gate, whilst maids and cooks and squires busied around the courtyard, marching back and forth from the tourney ground sat outside. Bran followed the noise, and the maids, cooks and squires down towards a great tent, with an open field designated for a jousting ground. Bran glimpsed from afar two men, donning wonderful extravagant armour, gunning at each other atop two impressive stallion. When they collided, one man unseated another prompting the crowds to explode to life once more.
Beyond that, an unoccupied archery range sat, and further along a melee ground was deserted also. The latter of the turnout were fixated on the joust. Bran strode closer, his legs feeling as real as they had ever. The great gazebo disguised the true number of the crowds, as small folk flocked the fences in their hundreds. Beneath the tent was a stand, and by the looks of it, half the lords of Westeros were seated below The Mad King himself. He recognised only banners, however; the three headed dragon of the crown, the falcon on a crescent moon of House Arryn, Robert Baratheon's own black stag, uncrowned. But amongst them all, it was the grey Direwolf on a snowy field of House Stark that caught Bran's attention. Before the old man could advise against it, Bran bounded off to find his family who were likely beneath those banners.
'Bran, don't,' an all too familiar voice whistled behind him.
He darted onto the jousting lines, whilst two knights prepared to clash in the middle. Though none noticed him; he simply didn't exist to the world here. He dashed passed the peasants cheering at the fences, passed the squires bumbling, passed all the lords and ladies and their banners, until he could only see Stark. And there he was, his father, young and gallant, stood beside his long dead family. Bran sparsely recognised the stone likeness of his grandfather, uncle and aunt; the statues at their crypts barely looked similar to the Stark's before him. Next to his Aunt Lyanna, a stranger. Yet Bran had met him, long ago when he could still walk. It was Robert Baratheon, strong and lean, a beast among the men around him—and at least a head taller than them all. The King Bran had met was fat and puffy, a soft copy of his formidable former self. This man seemed more a King, he thought. Before he could even think to hail his father, Bran was near trampled back to reality.
A Kingsguard whistled by him, down the lines atop his angry chestnut destrier, wielding an a snake for a lance, ready to bite. But the Kingsguard toppled, and was flung from his saddle in admirable fashion. He rose to a knee coughing and wheezing slightly, but to Bran's surprise, when the man removed his helm, he donned a smile. Bran recognised the man, from another time. Ser Arthur Dayne. Unhorsed by Rhaegar Targaryan, Bran realised. Old Nan had told him much of Lord Whent's Great Tournament, back in the year of the false Spring.
When Rhaegar lent a friendly hand to his Kingsguard, and pulled him back to his feet, the crowd erupted, bursting into a furnace of screams. It sounded as if thousands were attending this extravagant event. Bran could barely hear his own thoughts. The Last Dragon was adored by his subjects, in no way Bran could ever imagine. His Lord father was undoubtedly respected by his banners, his northerner's, but they would never had display affection in this manner.
Bran found himself melancholic, wondering what his life would have offered him, had he not fallen. No, I never fall. Never. Ser Jaime Lannister's voice echoed from somewhere. The things I do for love. Bran looked for him, but he was not here. The Kingslayer had been knighted at this tournament. If not for him, Bran may have found himself championing a grand tourney like Lord Whent's, a tale told for centuries to come. Once, it was all he'd ever dreamed of. But the golden haired knight had stripped him of the chance.
The final bout was taking place as the first combatant entered the tourney ground; The Crown Prince Rhaegar himself, looking glorious in his pitch armour, gleaming like black pearls, his mount dancing across the the jousting lines, forcing the small folk into a wave deafening cooing and cheers.
'The people loved him,' Bran observed, watching enviously as the renowned warrior received his countries embrace.
'They did. A fine King he would have made too, had he lived triumphant at The Trident. This was the day he would begin writing the tales of his eventual doom,' the old man babbled on. But Bran knew that already, the tourney at Harrenhal had been when Rhaegar had given his gesture to Aunt Lyanna, a crown of dusk roses, signifying her the Queen of Love and Beauty.
Entering the lines next was Rhaegar's opponent, Ser Barristen Selmy of the Kingsguard, donning gleaming milky armor, beaming rays from the sun without a dent or a scratch tarnishing the knights snowy plate. The crowd were no where near as loud for Ser Barristen as they had been for the crown prince, yet the legendary warrior did spur a flock of the crowds to roar his name proudly.
When the joust began, Bran couldn't unglue his eyes, watching eagerly at all the extravagance, all the glory; it was all he had wanted once, to be a legendary knight, who's name would ring in the ears of all those yet to even be born. But that was before.
He tried not to sulk, cursing his useless legs, whilst Rhaegar and Ser Barristen charged at one another, their mounts flicking up mud in their trails. Both men tilted their lances and raised their shields…and in all their caution, neither man landed a striking blow. The pair rapidly relayed, not letting more than a moment pass before they were at it again. This time however, it was the popular crown prince who was victorious in this bout, crashing Ser Barristen from his horse with a thunderous crack.
The Knight rose with honor, though his glorious armor remained clean no more, and his cloak looked nearer black than a pearly white. He knelt courteously at his Champion and his future King, whilst the crowd became a torrent of coos and cheers. Rhaegar addressed his subjects, all of which seemed to worship him. It made Bran's insides churn to contemplate why a monarch so many adored was stripped from this world. How many evil men had lived in his place? But Bran was soon enlightened, as Rhaegar, after claiming a crown of winter roses from Lord Whent, trotted beyond his wife, and rode straight up to Robert Baratheon and his betrothed, Lyanna Stark. The torrent of cheers died down into calm, still water. The Prince placed the roses on his aunties head, whilst Robert grew purple next to her. He whispered something, but Bran could not hear, but it made Lyanna's snowy northern cheeks flush rubies.
Next to them both, Bran eyed father. 'Father!' He screamed. But no one noticed. All eyes remained of Rhaegar. He ran towards him, but before he got close enough, the Raven blocked his path. He put his hand on Bran's shoulder and they warped once more.
When he opened his eyes, he woke not to his bleak cave, deep in the north. Instead he was surrounded by lush green trees, a pleasant breeze wafting the musty smell of the forest and damp and decay. He saw a mill on the river. 'Why did you do that?' Bran scolded, frustrated.
'They do not see you, Bran. You only must see them.' The Raven went towards the mill. Bran followed. 'What did you see?'
'The tourney at Harrenhal,' he exclaimed confidently.
'You saw history, Bran. The very birth of a bitter rivalry that would define Westeros for decades,' the Raven prattled, referring to Robert's Rebellion.
Bran tried to piece it all together. 'I don't understand though. What do Rhaegar and Lyanna have to do with the red priests?' He couldn't work out the sequence. First, Ser Jaime slays the Kingslayer, then the red witches, Harrenhal and now this mill.
The Raven turned to him, and said solemnly, 'oh, everything.'
As he walked on, Bran could see men at arms gathered at the riverbed. He did not recognise them but one looked like a red priest, garbed in ruby coloured armour and robes. Another had red receding hair, a patch covering a scarred eye socket and a lighting bolt lashed across his breastplate. They were pulling someone from the river. The body was limp, lifeless, drowned in the waters of the trident.
'A thousand year promise,' the Raven said. 'Echoing into the ears of the now. A hero, a champion, to emerge from salt and smoke, to lead the living against the dead in the long night to come. Rhaegar believed he was the Azor Ahai.'
'But Rhaegar is dead. And his sons with him,' Bran said, unsure. He saw the priest and the lightning knight kneel down and cradle the drowned person. He noticed she was a woman. He walked closer. Her skin was grey, and looked picked at by fish.
'He is. But his blood runs through the veins of others.' The Raven didn't keep pace. Nor did he look to haste Bran, which was a first. 'And that blood will save us all.'
Bran was at the riverbed. The woman had a gash across her throat, so deep her head looked likely to come off. But the red man was whispering in a strange tongue. The Lightning knight plunged a dagger into his heart suddenly, draining his own life blood, reciting another foreign prophecy. Bran crept so close he could have touched the red man.
The lightning knight died on the riverbed, his last words whispering intrigue and dark magic. The dead woman gasped for air, suddenly, as the Knights last breath left his lungs.
The Raven crept up on him. 'Beric Dondarrion, charged by your father to bring justice to the land. Even now, he leads his Brotherhood Without to greater quests. An brave man, to give his life for another.' Bran could barely listen; he couldn't break his fixation with the woman. He edged closer and closer, so eager to look upon her face. When he did, he dropped to his knees in disbelief. His heart was thumping in his ears and his chest fell tight. When she opened her eyes, she seemed scared and wary, yet she could not speak. In this world, Bran was invisible, but she noticed him, staring straight into his soul. They were eyes he once knew, seemingly closed forever yet opened once more. It was his mother.