The hot sun glared down on pale skin unused to the merciless heat. Dirthamen pulled at one tattered sleeve. He sat on a rock staring at the grasses and sticks from bushes he'd gathered. A dead rabbit lay next to the unlit fire bit. He had managed to catch the rabbit through his lame version of magic and now sat there staring at the twigs. He had no means to light a fire. Not to mention skin the rabbit.

Oh, he had the knowledge of how to do both of them. This didn't mean anything though. Knowledge alone didn't make him a mage who could start fires with a thought. And it didn't mean he could light the fire by other means either.

"You going to eat that?" a sharp click sounded.

Dirthamen didn't look up. He didn't have to. He knew who had asked. "It's yours, Fear," his voice cracked. He should have been more worried about finding water in this heat, but he didn't have the energy to stand or the air left in his lungs.

The raven hopped over to the rabbit and placed one foot on it. He tore into the skin. The first few mouthfuls were nothing but fur before his beak came back covered in blood.

"Mine too!" Deceit joined him in ripping open flesh. Her icy eyes glowed as she swallowed a mouthful. "Not as good as the slaves' cooking, but it will do."

Fear clicked his beak before ripping into the rabbit again.

Dirthamen watched the two, feeling disconnected from himself. His stomach turned with hunger, yet he couldn't bring himself to stand and look for something else to eat. There were a few eatable plants nearby. Ones he had been eating for a week now, but what was the point? Outside of Fear and Deceit, he had no one left. Mythal wasn't his mother, Falon'Din would rather see him dead, and Solas… Solas thought Dirthamen a monster, the same as all the others.

The last week Dirthamen had tried to find something which would prove Solas wrong. Some small piece of hope in the past several centuries which would point to Dirthamen being like Mythal in his fa— in Solas's eyes. There was nothing. Each time he dove into the past, he searched. He had found moments where he would try to help a slave. Then, Falon'Din had taken them. Dirthamen could have spoken up, but he hadn't. They had paid for his silence. He had known what would happen to them and done nothing.

Each moment was the same. Every time, Dirthamen had known what was happening or was going to happen was wrong. And he, he had nothing! What kind of person was he? To have sat back and done nothing. Oh, he knew he wanted to act. He remembered each moment as if it had happened minutes ago. Each time, every single time, he had wanted to speak out, to do something to stop the coming pain of another, and done nothing. Then, the small moments where he had helped children. Even that wasn't enough. Even in trying there, he had done terrible things. They were still slaves.

This had shown Dirthamen everything Solas believed about him and the others was correct. Dirthamen was a heartless monster.

Only scraps remained of the rabbit. A hissing click came from Fear. He leapt on Deceit, snapping his beak at her. The two tasseled over the remains. Blood dripped from their beaks to the grassy ground. Fear clawed Deceit before smacking his head against hers.

Stunned, Deceit staggered back. Deceit lowered her head. She appeared defeated.

Fear clicked his beak and moved to claim his prize.

Deceit stayed low, in a defeated position. Then, when Fear was close enough, she leapt at him. Her beak struck him. Fear fell back into the grass, sprawled. His legs stuck up in the air. Deceit snapped her beak a few times and straightened. She stretched her wings in a display of victory.

"Ignorant, oaf." She tossed back her blood stained head and turned to claim her prize.

Dirthamen watched her snap up the scraps. His stomach churned, rumbling. The scraps looked like a feast, glistening in the light of the sun. No – he forced his eyes closed. He wasn't so pathetic he would stoop so low as to eat raw meat.

"Low, deceitful, bitch!"

Dirthamen opened his eyes a slit.

Fear had managed to get back to his feet. Feathers fluffed so he looked almost twice his normal size. "I'll rip out your throat. Feel fear!" he shrieked. Fear leapt at Deceit.

"Enough!" Dirthamen lifted his hand.

Fear froze mid leap. His body frozen in time. Then, Dirthamen moved the bird back through time until Fear was back on the ground, feathers fluffed.

"No more fighting," Dirthamen gasped. Each word broken. His breathing strained. It felt as if someone had reached down his throat and started to squeeze his lungs. Breathe. He closed his eyes and focused on breathing in and out through his nose. His breathing eased, leaving him shaking and weak in the wake of the bout.

"Idiot! You nearly killed Master Dirthy!" Deceit huffed. The feathers on her neck spiked. "Then we would die, you feather brained fool!"

Dirthamen opened his eyes. He still monitored his breathing, taking air through his nose to ease back the attack. When he could breathe easier, Dirthamen stood. There was no point in staying here. He needed to find water and something to eat.

The air seemed to suck the moisture from Dirthamen. His lungs tightened. With each step it became a struggle to keep breathing through his nose. His dark hair fell around his face as a tangled, matted mess. His feet dragged against the grassy land. What was the point?

Dirthamen's foot caught. He staggered. The ground flew up at him. Pain lanced through his arms and, the next moment, he was rolling down a steep hill. He let his body go limp. Gravity pulled him down and momentum speed him forward after the hill had ended. Then he was stopped.

Every inch of his body ached. His stomach was pressed against the hot grasses. Dirthamen stared at each golden strand, standing tall even in this heat. Each breath pulled at his lungs. His breathing labored and harsh. What was the point?

"Dirthamen!" Fear shouted at the same moment Deceit called, "Dirthy!"

Dirthamen closed his eyes.

There was no point. In the end, his mere existence had been a mistake.

"You can't stop here," Fear snapped. The soft flutter of wings told Dirthamen the two demons had landed by him. "Get up!" The raven pulled at his hair.

Dirthamen didn't move. He was tired. So very tired and there was no point in fighting. No reason to not just lay there and sleep.

"Dirthamen!"

Darkness edged Dirthmanen's vision. He let himself drift into the comfortable abyss. Here, nothing mattered. He was a mistake. It was alright to drift off. To just vanish.

* ~ x ~ *

Soft sounds drifted down to Dirthamen through a haze of darkness.

"He's half starved." The voice was gentle, soft, and almost, was it worried?

"We should take him to Fen'Harel's sanctuary. Whatever he's running from was enough to drive him forward without food." The other voice was also female. This one was stern; commanding.

"We can't do that. He was moving away from the sanctuary. What if he and Fen'Harel don't see eye-to-eye?" the first woman protested.

A cool dampness touched Dirthamen's lips. Water trickled down into his mouth before the cloth was removed. The water tasted of the cloth. Yet, it was the most wonderful water he remembered drinking. Too little. Why had she removed the cloth? He needed more water. His body craved it.

"Tch," the second woman snorted, "we can't keep him with us. What if whatever he's running from comes after us?"

"I know you're worried about the group, but we can't just turn away this poor soul and let him die."

"Watch me."

"Etha!" There was horror in the first woman's voice now.

The shout pulsed through Dirthamen's throbbing skull.

"Humph," the second woman grunted. "Inform me when he wakes." These words were followed by the sound of someone moving away.

Dirthamen groaned. His eyes creaked open a slit. Light struck him and he squeezed his eyes shut again. Where was he? The question pulled at his aching head.

Images burst into life behind his closed eyes. Dirthamen could see a cave and a group of elvhen within. He was at the far back looking out at them from the furs on the ground. All the elvhen there wore travel worn clothing. The gentle sound of chatter pulsed over the distant rain.

Dirthamen felt a cool hand against his forehead.

"Da'len, can you hear me?" Her hand ran over his head, gentle and soft. The touch of a healer.

Da'len? Dirthamen opened his eyes a slit once more. This time, he forced himself not to close his eyes the moment fire light hit them. He wasn't a child. Yet, the way he had been found by this group, starved and dehydrated would make any believe he was in his early twenties, as he appeared to be physically, instead of his sixtieth century.

"How do you feel?" Her voice was so soft. The sound of it foreign.

Dirthamen blinked a few times. He tried to lift his hand. His arm shook with the effort and pain. What a sorry excuse for an elvhen he was. He couldn't even lift his arm.

"You needn't force yourself, da'len," the first woman soothed him. "You're going to feel weak. Here."

The cloth touched his lips again.

Water! Dirthamen forced his arm to move. His hand latched onto the cloth, fingers closing around hers.

"No, da'len." The woman broke his grip with ease. "You mustn't drink too much."

"Not," the word pulled on Dirthamen's throat as harsh sandpaper would against flesh, "a child." He blinked and forced himself to move. His breathing labored as he pulled himself up.

"Easy now." The woman took hold of him and started to aid him.

Dirthamen recoiled from the touch. He slapped her hands away. No one touched him! Not without permission and certainly not to aid him in sitting up like he was a newborn.

The moment her hands moved away, Dirthamen fell back to the thin furs. He was too weak to even sit up on his own. He closed his eyes. He didn't want a child helping him. It was bad enough they were seeing him like this. Yet, who was he anymore? He had told himself Dirthamen was dead. How true was this now? He could no longer be Dirthamen. He no longer had the rights of the God-like figurehead the People had looked to for insight.

He tried again.

The woman didn't bother helping this time.

Dirthamen managed to lift himself a few inches. A fist closed around his lungs, squeezing the air from them. He fell back. Air gasped through thin airways. He couldn't breathe.

"Honestly, you act like a privileged, little child," the woman stated, unamused.

Dirthamen felt a plant touch his lips.

"Breathe in."

He knew the plant. It was one which servants had gathered from Sylaise to help ease breathing. Dirthamen took it and breathed in. The next moment, his lungs loosed. He took several deep breaths: in and out through his nose. This time he didn't make to sit up.

There was a long moment where the woman looked at him as if expecting something. Dirthamen blinked. It clicked what she was waiting for. "My thanks," he whispered, voice hoarse from his resent struggle for breath.

The woman smiled. "There, that wasn't so bad. Now, if you must insist on sitting up, let me aid you."

Dirthamen nodded. In the end, he had to remember he wasn't who he had been a week ago and he couldn't do things on his own. Right now, this included sitting up.

The woman smiled at him. She helped him up and then eased him so he was leaning against the wall. "There, that's not so hard to ask for help, now is it?"

He couldn't meet her gaze. For most of his life, he had been hiding his physical disadvantages from everyone around him. A few of the slaves had known only because they got the medication he might need if he overstepped and had an attack where his lungs closed. His brother had known all of it and protected Dirthamen from their father. He had helped hide it from their mother. Well, keep it from Elgar'nan that was. Dirthamen couldn't call Elgar'nan his father anymore.

The only other one who had known was Solas. It was just because his uncle – no, father – no, he had no right to call him that either. It was just because Solas had been observant and noticed the differences between Dithamen and Falon'Din as they'd grown. Ever since then, Solas had helped keep the knowledge hidden from the others lest Dirthamen be viewed as useless especially to his… to Elgar'nan. His uncle – no, Dirthamen had to scold himself again for the mental slip up. Solas had told him to never tell another. It was a piece of information the enemy would exploit or, even, one of the others could.

Thus, Dirthamen just looked at the woman. He then bowed his head in thanks, but refused to speak. It was dangerous. It was too dangerous to let anyone know he was physically frail. They already knew of his bad lungs. If they learned of his frailty, then what? He could see images of the future starting to form in his mind's eye. Dirthamen shoved them back and focused on the now as well as the hushed sights and sounds of the next moment.

"I need to speak with our leader," the woman was saying.

Dirthamen forced himself to listen to her.

"She needs to know you're awake and make a decision on…" she trailed off, her dark brown eyes troubled.

"What to do with me?" The words were uttered as little more than a whisper. Each one hurt to speak. He was still so very thirsty.

"Yes." The woman touched his hands.

It took all of Dirthamen's willpower not to jerk away from the touch. He wasn't privileged. He had no rank or place in this world and thus he needed to learn that others would touch him.

"I'm certain she will see reason and not throw you out."

Dirthamen frowned. "I'm not staying," he rasped.

The woman snorted. "You're in condition to do anything but sit there." She released his hands and stood. "So, you had better sit there and be good." She wagged her finger and winked with a teasing grin playing around her lips. She turned and moved off.

The woman headed across the cave to where another woman stood her back to them and eyes locked on the cave entrance.

Dirthamen turned his gaze from the two woman to the rest of the cave. Most who were there, were children, the two women by the entrance, and another woman sat by the fire. The second Dirthamen looked at her, an image flashed before his eyes of her holding a newborn baby. He blinked and looked at her again. She didn't look pregnant under her heavy travel clothes, but this didn't mean she wasn't.

The last person there was a man. He sat before the children. All of them seemed locked on what he was telling them. His hands were placed on either side of his light, golden brown hair, pointer and middle fingers crossed. He moved his head, making soft sounds like a halla.

The children giggled.

He continued on with the story, spurred on by the laughter of the few children. He moved his body as if to mime the movement of a halla.

The children cheered.

Dirthamen watched the group and noticed the woman by the fire glance over at the man. She smiled. Her eyes lighting up as the children's did. She stopped in her work and hid her laughter behind one hand. There was a slight flush to her cheeks. The man must have been the father of her unborn child. No, Dirthamen knew the man was the father.

Envy washed crashed down on him in a sudden wave. The emotion left his ears ringing as he watched the woman, unseeing. Once, long ago, all Dirthamen had wanted was to have a family. He had placed the idea to the back of his because his brother wanted to help the others in rebuilding the People after the First War. Dirthamen had then been caught up in the work placed before them.

Years had passed before he had considered it again. He had ended up with a crush on one woman and then a crushed heart when she had chosen his brother over him. He had been happy for his brother when he had a healthy boy with the woman. Then this had repeated for several years until Dirthamen had found a girl who had loved him, but she had—

No, Dirthamen closed his eyes and forced back the memory of what had happened. He wouldn't think on it. He had nothing to be envious of. He had everything for many, many centuries. Everything but a family outside of his brother, the man he had wanted desperately to be his father, and his mother. Until now.

Dirthamen opened his eyes and dropped his gaze to his hands. The once pale skin now red and blistered, raw with sunburn. He pulled at his tattered sleeve. He knew it had been Fear and Deceit who had gotten these people to help him. And their reasons were just because if he died they would die. That was all his life was to them, away to keep on living forever.

He stretched out his sun red fingers. The skin pulled. A twinge of pain with the movement made him blink but not react otherwise. He would heal and he would live. This group would keep them with them if he could pull his own weight among them. In turn he would get food and the safety of numbers. Yet, he didn't want that and there was still the possibility they would want nothing to do with him. The fear he could bring his problems down upon them.

If he left, the two ravens would keep him alive. If he stayed he would be alive and suffering less. He deserved to suffer after all he and the others had done to the People. They weren't gods, they weren't kings, or honored-elders, or even generals. They were leeches! Each day they sucked more from the People. The pain they caused left little good in this world and for what? For their own power and greed.

Dirthamen closed his eyes. His hand curled over his other, nails biting into the raw skin. The pressure did little to cause pain. His hand shook in the other. He was too weak to hurt himself. He was too weak to survive and live on his own. In the end, Elgar'nan had been right. He couldn't survive in the world. Not without Falon'Din there. His brother had protected him and made certain he survived. It had been his brother's strength which had shielded him. He was too weak, too frail; too sickly. His only strength lay within his ability to predict events. And the ability his fa- Elgar'nan had forced upon him.

"They're back!" the woman who had helped Dirthamen called.

Dirthamen opened his eyes a slit. His gaze still on his hands.

More of the People filed into the cave. A ram was carried between many of them.

"Andruil was kind to us today," said one of the hunters. She bowed her head to Etha. "We managed to catch enough for a good meal this day."

"Wonderful news." Etha smiled at the hunters. Pride glinted in her pale, blue eyes. "Let us prepare a meal and then rest."

The hunters bowed their heads to Etha. They moved off to skin the catch and help prepare a male.

Dirthamen watched them. His heart twisted at the sound of them giving thanks to Andruil.

"The healer says you're in no condition to be placed back in the world on your own."

The sharp, stern voice of Etha drew Dirthamen's attention to her. She now stood before him. Her eyes seemed to pierce straight through him as if she could see everything. He looked into her face, studying her. She was in her first century, respected for her age here and looked to be in her thirties. She had the look of one who had seen the worst of life and he knew she had.

"I will leave shortly." Dirthamen kept his voice polite. He gave the slightest bow of his head. "My thanks for saving my life," he hesitated, "hahren." The word pulled at him, foreign to one who was known to be older than all but a few others.

Etha scowled. "I'm not kicking you out, da'len."

Dirthamen balled his hand into a fist, crumpling his dark gray clothes. Again with the calling him a child. He forced back his annoyance at it. She would assume he was a child given how much of an idiot he had been the past week. And the fact he had called her "elder."

"You need food, water, and rest before you're able to go anywhere. All of which we can provide. Once you're recovered and you still wish to go, then leave and pray to the Creators I never see your face again." Her eyes flashed. She turned on her heel and walked away without another word.

Dirthamen looked at her. He had expected worse and thus just sat there, watching her go.

After a time, he turned his gaze on the rest of the group. They were a band of travelers, he had been able to tell this from the start. From what he knew of these groups was they lived on the move, trading what they could for clothing and other essentials. Otherwise they lived completely off the land.

A pot had been placed over the fire. Two people stood at it stirring the contents. Others were placing the meat and other ingratiates into the pot. The laughter and teasing between the members of the group, made Dirthamen blink. He turned his gaze to the children. They were eager in their attempts to help the adults prepare the meal. Their eyes shining and faces brimming with smiles.

The man who had been telling the children the story earlier, moved in behind one of the people at the pot. It took a moment for Dirthamen to realize it was the man's lover. He took hold of her from behind and swept her away from the pot.

"Ah!" She screamed in shock. Some of the soup's contents flew from the pot. "Mahvir!"

Whack – the sound of wood hitting flesh was dulled by the roars of laughter from the others.

"Ouch, lath, wooden spoons can kill a man." The man, Mahvir, winced in false pain before he kissed her.

This caused those watching to poke fun at the pair. The kids made faces and turned away. "Stop eating her face, Mahvir!" one would shout.

"Too gross," another would mime being sick.

A small smile twitched at the corners of Dirthamen's thin lips. The smile lasted less than a heartbeat before it fell away. Falon'Din had made such comments whenever Mythal and Elgar'nan had shown even the little affection they had before others. Dirthamen could see his brother as a child and disgust just as clearly as he could see these children.

Pain twisted Dirthamen's heart. He should have stayed. He should have just let Falon'Din kill him there and then. The coward he was, had chosen to run. Dirthamen kept his eyes locked on the children as they were shooed away.

The kids laughed and raced away. It was then one of them took notice of Dirthamen. He blinked and looked at Dirthamen then edged towards him.

"We're not supposed to go near him," hissed another one of the children.

The first child ignored the other. He edged closer. "Do you got good stories?" he asked Dirthamen. His brown eyes large with wonder and curiosity.

"He got no good stories." The second one looked over at the adults. She had worry in her light eyes. "We shouldn't be talking to him."

The boy continued to move closer.

"Ven." The girl moved after him. She glanced towards the adults.

"You have to got new stories for us." Ven stopped before Dirthamen. "How else your hands turn red? That a story." He glare back at the girl. "It is, Nehn."

"We're not supposed to be here." Nehn rung her shirt and eyed Dirthamen. There was real fear there.

"I won't harm either of you, children," he told them.

"See!" Ven placed his small fists on his hips, chest puffed up as he looked at Nehn. "Story then!" he demanded as he turned back to Dirthamen. He settled himself on the ground before Dirthamen.

"I've never told one."

"Tell us about Dirthamen and Falon'Din!" the girl joined Ven. "They twins like Ven and I, but they got same dad. We don't. We still twins though."

"Uh-ah." Ven nodded and took his sister's hand in his. "We not look like one another though and it said Dirth look like Falon."

"Dirthamen! Falon'Din!" Nehn corrected.

The two children still believed they were twins. Dirthamen's heart twisted as he remembered his brother's enraged features and the lust for power.

"Same thing," the boy snapped.

"Not." Nehn huffed. "Dirth not Dirthamen."

"Story on them!" demanded Ven, turning his eyes back on Dirthamen. "Mahvir gives good ones 'bout them, but we know all his now. We want new. You gotta have new." The boy leaned forward, eyes wide and pleading.

A story on himself? Dirthamen stared at the child. He didn't have a clue what to tell the boy. Or how to tell a story. He thought hard on what to do. An image of his unc– Solas telling him and Falon'Din stories came to him.

"You sure you want one on them?" Dirthamen asked. "Why not a story on some other subject?"

"Them!" Ven protested.

"You got different story? Not one on Creators?" The girl's eyes were wide. "Tell how magic works?"

"That dull. That no story!" Ven glared at his sister.

"Why don't I explain how magic works through a story?" Dirthamen asked. He liked this girl. She reminded him of him when he was younger.

"Tell story! Tell it on twin Creators!" Ven placed both hands on the ground.

"No, tell magic work!" the girl protested.

Dirthamen frowned. "Why don't I tell you a story about two twins: Dirth and Falon, as they learned to use magic?" he asked. It was easy to talk to these two. Children had always been easy to talk to though. Their boundless curiosity and excitement over anything new made warmth spread through Dirthamen.

"Ah, but I wanted one about the creators," Ven pouted.

"You two will get a story later," another stated.

Dirthamen looked up to see the man who had been entraining the children earlier standing over them. He held a bowl in his hand.

"The meal's ready. Etha might get evil eyes if she saw you two speaking with our newcomer here."

"You're not going to tell, Mahvir?!" The boy's eyes grew wide.

"We weren't meaning to break our promise," Nehn added, her voice trembling with worry.

"Not if you two scat before she notices." Mahvir winked at them.

"Scatting!" both raced off.

Dirthamen felt his heart sink a little. It would have been nice to tell them a story. For too long, many of the People hadn't come to him for wisdom or had and hadn't been able to get through the trials. It would have been nice to share something with the two children like the nine of them used to before they had been seen as "gods."

"They weren't nipping you too much for stories, right?"

"No." Dirthamen turned his gaze back on the man.

"Good. Oh, here!" Mahvir held out the bowl to Dirthamen. "You need to eat or you might pass out again." He grinned. "We can't have that happening, now, can we?" His voice was light almost cheery and there was sparkle of laughter in his brown eyes as he looked down at Dirthamen.

Dirthamen started to take the bowl then lowered his hand. This group had already helped him enough and, if he took the food they would want him to give something in return. "I've nothing to give in return for the food or aid," Dirthamen confessed.

Laughter filled the air. Mahvir doubled over without spilling the food. "You don't have to pay for it! Just stay with your fellow travelers and pull your own weight in the group. Then we'll call it all even." He winked at Dirthamen.

"My thanks, but I must decline." It was for the best Dirthamen traveled alone. If his brother ever found him, it would be easier to escape and not worrying about a child getting caught in the fray between them.

Mahvir settled himself on the ground. He moved his legs with his free hand. "Eat."

"No, I—"

Dirthamen gagged when Mahvir shoved the spoon into his mouth. He managed to swallow the food. The hot liquid scolded his throat and mouth. He gasped, eyes watering. The feeling of the pain echoed through the past. The pain multiplied by the feeling of the echo.

"What do you think you're doing?" Dirthamen demanded, gasping through the pain.

The man grinned all the wider. "Saving your pathetic life, that's what. Now, shut up and eat!"

Stunned, Dirthamen stared at the man, mouth open.

Mahvir lifted the spoon, the food dripping from the sides.

"Wait!" Dirthamen ducked. "I can feed myself, thanks!"

Mahvir chuckled. "Then, feed yourself or I will continue to feed you like a baby."

Dirthamen took the bowl. He started to eat the food. The taste clung to his tongue even through the scolded taste buds. Each bite was a struggle. The plan taste of the meat, water, and salt was overpowering. He could taste every bite before taking it, as he took, and lingered in his mouth. He suppressed a shudder. Ugh, he hated eating.

(Author's Note: A note on Dirthamen: his power to control time would make him way too powerful of a character (really like a god) so to even it out I made him physically frail and he has asthma.

NOTE: The story has been edited. I will be going back through it in a day to reedit the chapter.)