He looked over his shoulder.
A man and woman, side by side, had passed him by — and again that curious sensation of tugging and pushing came over him. It had been with him, whenever there was a stranger on the road, the whole journey to Venin.
Like something was watching him, and he was gazing back — only not with eyes.
A heavy weariness was about him. Even the sun was setting again.
He had not slept, the stolen horse had borne him over many leagues, through tents and trails, and now rested again in the mercenaries' stable while he made for his own door — a little chamber at the southern edge of town where his bed and a few belongings waited.
His mind was restless, trying to make sense of the stranger Carys, of Beor's parting gift.
And each thought was pulled again by the passersby that seemed to observe him.
Little droplets began their quiet tapping, woven through the wind that swept the narrow passage.
He had gone past his place now, sunken in thought as the streets emptied. It had begun to rain. As a welcome breeze it came to Alwyn.
He liked this town. It did not know him and he walked its streets unburdened.
The market square was empty now. He passed by its well, its hauled bucket waiting for the next busy morning. It all looked so very peaceful, the dark of night flooding the town square, small lights twinkling far away in the sky. The slow breaths of a city asleep. A peace that was not for him. The place felt strangely distant now. A town that once had welcomed a stranger, slipping away — threads of another life never quite severed drawing aside the covers of his refuge. Revealed to be large and empty. He did not belong.
Though where was he to go, laden with a death sentence in his pocket.
And even though he could, he would not part with it yet, not, at least, before he knew about Beor.
His clothes were soaked now, skin feeling the cold touch of wet cloth.
A long way his feet had carried him about. And now they were making for a dark wooden door, which stood, closed, a few feet before him.
As he came to a standstill, he was suddenly aware of his body. Tired he was, shivering in the cold rain, bereft of the warmth in his body, which now seemed to beg him for rest.
He must be in the northern parts of Venin by now.
Almost unconsciously his hand moved to knock on the door in front of him.
Everything felt slurred, his mind and body slowing down, not quite obeying.
To his surprise, eventually, it opened and he found two keen, blue eyes staring back at him.
They belonged to an old man, who was just a little shorter than he.
For a while Alwyn returned his gaze as his mind was stirred out of its present weariness.
"Pardon me, I must have — lost my way."
Alwyn turned to walk back to his own place, though far it may be now.
And even after a few steps, a curious voice caught up to him.
"Come lad, get some rest or the night will do you in."
The struggle in Alwyn's voice had not gone unnoticed.
He was not one to trust a stranger, much less to rely on their kindness. But he was weary now.
And so he went back again and eyed the old man. Then, a soft grin spread on his face. The way the old man had mustered him, measured him with hardiness in his face, the way he carried himself — Alwyn had seen it now and again. This should be a good place to seek rest.
"I regret to rouse you this late. I got lost — and why I found my way here I am not sure. I hope I do not inconvenience you, though it would be most welcome to sit and warm myself for a little while."
The stern expression on the old man's face softened, he even began to laugh.
"Ahh, you speak more courteous than you look. Tell me, lad, what is your name?"
"Alwyn, sir. And may I learn yours?"
"Morgan." And by custom, he stretched out a hand to greet Alwyn.
"Now, come in, before the cold creeps in, where it should be left out."
Thus they entered Morgan's home.
It seemed small. Too large for just one person yet too little a place for a family, though he could only make out the main room.
A large table used up most of the room, chairs covered in dust stood by it — in perfect symmetry.
The old man eyed him for a bit, before speaking again.
"I suppose it would take a longer time to tell you. Though, memories made shape again, is what you might think of them. But seldomly they come now, as the ages are not of old anymore." The man seemed to be content with his explanation and Alwyn was too tired to inquire more, even though nothing of it made any sense to him.
"Do you have family, Alwyn?" he asked. It barely registered, and he did not answer at first. The old man continued.
"What drives man now, to go to war I wonder, if not the fair sight of a warm home and fairer still its lovely keepers."
Those words felt as if they ridiculed Alwyn, though he knew that was not their intent.
Naive they were, such as he might have spoken them himself years ago. But not so now.
"It is what I am good at. So I do it." Alwyn replied after a while.
"Good at it, I wonder. To what end then — as a serf?"
At those words Alwyn roused again, was he being made a fool before this old man?
"Forgive me again for my brashness. Truly, you seem as more of an honorable man, though maybe astray." Sourness spread in Alwyn's mouth. "honorable".
"I think you speak about things you do not understand".
"That may be so. But if you allow me, a person good at war ought not to serve when he has nothing to protect."
"And you deem so, that I have nothing to protect?"
"Of course," Morgan laughed. "You would not even protect yourself were it not for pride. Is it not so? But I shall stop now, before I become discourteous myself, even in jest."
He was angered still, being read more than he wished for.
"And what does an old man know about it, in his cozy home. When days of battle are long past and your days bleed into weeks, and all you have to protect is your doorstep from dust and critters." Words left his mouth as the thought formed. He was no longer awake enough to play the proper part.
"Why did I never notice it. He stopped playing with the younger folk, stopped trying to learn how to read and write. When he took up the sword in earnest. What did he search for I wonder, what made him despair. Driving him to foreign places."
A soft chuckle escaped his lips.
"Ahh, how proud I was to see him finally move up, driven and strong, strong as I was. Though watching from behind, I would not see his face. Then maybe I would have seen his smile that was no longer there." Bitterness was in his voice, gentle as a remembrance, but hurt still. Alwyn was awake again, and he listened.
"A joyous heart was his. Alas, that is what I believed. Was he not at all as I was?
I never found out about it, where he tried to go, what drove him mad. And whatever it was it eluded him, made him all the more set on his way. So often I wonder, were she here, could she have stayed him? Would our son still be here? Ahh, would you now listen to the fire burning?"
Alwyn's gaze moved again towards the drawing of the woman. She looked at him, and still he could not make out her expression. The old man was hunched forward. Long must the shadow of his tale have lain on him. Alwyn studied his face for a while.
The old man's eyes too had been resting on the drawing of that woman, and now a smile touched his face, as if sweet memories washed over him.
Alwyn never was one to comfort. They both said no word, listening to the fire, embers slowly diminishing.
"What happened to him?" Alwyn asked finally, cutting through the silence.
After a while Morgan turned to him.
"Naturally, he went his own paved way. Which he could no longer let go of, even after all courses ran ill." He went silent. "A reaper in the dark."
Sitting up again, he turned with a smile to Alwyn.
"He dwells now in Dareg — last I heard."
"So you do not see each other?" Alwyn wondered.
A hint of sadness crept over the old man's smile. "Did we, I wonder ...". Almost bemused he seemed to Alwyn, until he saw his jaw quivering. "... no, my son vanished".
Minutes passed as the ambers, dying, spent their last bit of warmth.
„Your errand, where does it lead. What are you trying to find, Alwyn?"
Indeed, what was he trying to find? Was he not just a wanderer without aim?
Truly, wandering in the far green fields, no direction nor aim, moving along the sea of grass that swept him by. And below him, below him was...
A sudden pain surged in his head, remembering faces that lay forgotten in his memory.
No, he was not just wandering. Not even running away.
"I..." He was unsure, whose memories were they? Memories of another time.
As another life it appeared now before him.
Morgan looked back into the fire. The small flames now danced in his keen eyes. And it was then that Alwyn beheld him for the first time. An old man he was, weathered by years, but strong and tall yet, as he sat upright in his chair.
And Alwyn wondered, who was that man seated before him, whose bright eyes had studied him all evening.
Then, Morgan began to hum and slowly his low voice turned into song.