Time passed, but Denor failed to score, and even missed the rebound.
He knew the invaders had been scouring the woods for weeks since the latest missing comrade, and they did it with all the subtlety of a drunken Aurox in a porcelain shop. Every morning, as predictable as sunrise and twice as annoying, he saw the search parties tramping through the forest, eyes peeled for any sign of their latest lost soldier. And every morning, like a particularly elusive shadow, Denor slunk among the trees, tailing the Trunians. The difference being, of course, that this time he was content to remain nothing more than a shadow, for if he revealed himself, they might start asking uncomfortable questions—questions like, “What did you do with our missing soldier?” and “Why is he missing his head?”
Now, being Denor—and Denor being a young man whose heroic exploits had been hijacked first by Charan and then by Rodrik— he was bursting to brag about what he had done. He yearned to climb to the rooftops (without falling off this time) and shout it to the skies, not just to his village, but to all of Andron VII, to rally them against these damned Trunians. The thought of what said invaders might do to the last Andronian village, combined with the far more terrifying prospect of what his father might do to him, kept his lips firmly sealed.
“Has Tycho been tolerable with just you for company?” he asked Ledo one morning after returning from the woods.
“We’ll manage, as long as we’re both still breathing. Don’t fret over it. I know he barks at me, but that’s just how he is. He’s short-tempered on a good day, and when he’s ill, well, he’s downright homicidal. I’ll do my best not to murder him in kind.”
“So you don’t mind me being outdoors all the time?”
Ledo smirked. “Oh no, it’s a terrible burden, not having to deal with you being here all the time.”
“I can stay more if you want,” Denor shrugged, taking the sarcasm literally.
“No, that’s fine, honestly,” Ledo quickly replied, not wanting the boy to get the wrong ideas. “Come with me, there’s something I want to talk to you about, but not within earshot of the Trunians.”
The two of them walked through the forest, their footsteps would have been muffled by the thick blanket of pine needles, but a thicker blanket of snow covered that.
“We may have a problem,” Ledo muttered, clearly reluctant to broach the subject.
There was a long, uncomfortable silence, where Denor wracked his brains for the possible answer.
“The portable heater was eaten by a goat?” he ventured.
“Stantych has returned.”
“But the heater is okay?”
Ledo patiently waited for Denor to catch up.
“Returned?” Denor exclaimed, his hand instinctively reaching for his blaster, causing his father to scowl at the sudden movement. “Why can’t he just leave us in peace?”
“Well,” Ledo began slowly, “part of it is because you’re refusing to leave them in peace. At first, I was concerned he’d take it out on us, even if his soldiers never found the body. But now, I think he just needed an excuse to come back and stick his nose where it doesn’t belong.”
“Stick his nose in the soldier?” Denor asked, his confusion mounting until a sudden, horrible realization blazed to life within him. “Gella!” he cried out.
“Yes,” Ledo said unhappily, “it seems he’s been sniffing around her, like a dog that’s caught the scent of fresh meat.”
“But Gella isn’t a soldier…” Denor mused.
“Just forget I mentioned the soldiers!” Ledo snapped.
“I’ll kill him!” Denor snarled, his anger boiling over. “I’ll rip out his heart and feed it to the pigs! I’ll do something unsettling with his spleen! I’ll—”
Denor’s teeth rattled in his skull like dice in a shaken cup as his father gave him a clout that suggested, quite firmly, that any further nonsense might result in a full brain scramble. Pain shot through him and when he spat, the saliva was decidedly redder than it ought to be. Denor wisely decided that, for once, keeping his mouth shut might be the better part of valor.
Ledo, upon noting the sudden and miraculous silence of his offspring, nodded with the sort of satisfaction one might reserve for a job well done—or at least not catastrophically bungled. “Good,” said the former gunsmith. “Perhaps I’ve hammered some sense into that thick skull of yours. Now, have you stopped to consider what I said would become of the village if you were foolish enough to go and skewer the Trunian General? Hmm? The man’s odious, yes, but dead men tend to complicate things rather more than they solve them.”
“He deserves it,” Denor muttered, his tone heavy with the sullen righteousness of youth.
“Deserves it? Oh, absolutely,” Ledo agreed with a nod. “I know you want to attack him because of Gella, but think boy! It’s Charan’s first duty to defend her honor, not yours.”
Denor’s brain, which was not accustomed to such intricate contortions of logic, promptly stalled. “I—” he began, then promptly forgot how to end.
Ledo helpfully filled in the gap. “You’re thinking with your eyes, boy. Whether you’re a friend defending another, or you’ve taken a fancy to Gella, you think it’s your job to do what her future husband really ought to be doing.”
Denor, who was now convinced his father had taken leave of his senses entirely, found himself in a dilemma. He couldn’t very well agree, as he didn’t think of her that way. But disagreeing seemed like a fast track to more violence being inflicted upon him. So, in a masterful display of avoiding the issue, he simply kept walking, pretending the conversation was a figment of his imagination.
They trudged side by side down the road to the village, with Denor trailing behind Ledo’s long strides like a reluctant shadow. The main road was populated by villagers going about their daily grind and a few soldiers loitering in the way that soldiers are wont to do when they haven’t got anything better to be doing. Denor, who hadn’t seen this much human activity since he’d come back from the ravine, stared at the crowd with the wide-eyed wonder of someone expecting fireworks at any moment.
And then there was Gella, coming up the road with a bouquet of flowers that was about half as big as she was. Denor, with a burst of energy that might have surprised even himself, hurried toward her. “Are you all right?” he asked, as if the flowers might suddenly explode.
Ledo took one look at them, shook his head, and wandered off to somewhere that might have more alcohol present.
Gella, whose voice to Denor sounded oddly strained, said, “Of course I am well. Why shouldn’t I be?”
“Well, because of Stantych!” Denor growled. He had a few choice words in mind that he’d picked up from Hevath, but somewhere in the back of his mind, a small, rational voice suggested that hurling them in Gella’s direction might not be the smoothest move.
Turns out progression came in many forms.
Gella, apparently immune to Denor’s concern, tossed her head, and frazzled hair flew in a manner that could only be described as theatrical. “Oh, he’s not so bad,” she said, with a wave of the bouquet indicating that the General was responsible for the gift. She then sniffed Denor. “At least he bathes.”
A few weeks ago, Denor would have fled at this point, perhaps to a dark corner to nurse his wounded pride. But his hatred for Stantych had grown to a size that left no room for retreat. Instead, he bit out, “He’s nothing but a damned invader. What happened to the girl I saw a few weeks ago?”
Gella, apparently unhappy at him bringing that up, threw her head back again and gave Denor a look that was sharp enough to shave with. “And what is it to you, Denor, who I see or what I do?”
Ledo’s words echoed in Denor’s head because there was plenty of acoustic space there—reminders that this business was not his to meddle in, but Charan’s. “What is it to me?” he echoed, his voice faltering. The bravado that had gotten him this far seemed to have deserted him, and for a moment, he was left floundering, unable to finish the thought.
What could he say that would be enough to seize Gella’s attention? She leaned forward, her hand running through the flowers as she ignored him for a moment, lost in their natural beauty. “Well?” she asked, voice as quiet as a whisper and deadly serious.
“I’m your friend and I’m worried about you!” Denor blurted out, the words spilling from him like a dam finally breaking.
It wasn’t the words she wanted to hear.
Gella’s eyes turned as hard as granite and as cold as winter frost. She marched towards her house, each step striking the ground with the finality of a judge’s gavel.
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Denor watched her go, a sinking feeling settling in his gut like a stone dropped into a well. He knew he’d botched it. He knew the exact words he should’ve said—not that it did him any good because he didn’t feel that way! He kicked at the dirt, muttering curses that weren’t fit for a sailor, letting them fall like rain upon his own head.
“Come along, son,” Ledo’s voice cut through his brooding, having apparently watched the entire interaction with a drink and a pie in his hands. Denor flinched; he’d nearly forgotten his father had returned. The (former) gunsmith continued, “Things have a way of mending themselves over time. It’s happened before.”
“Our friendship is ruined,” Denor muttered darkly. For a teenager with his social acumen, life’s hurdles were as towering as mountains and just as immovable.
“We lost the battle against those blasted Trunians,” Ledo said, his voice carrying the weight of old wounds. “But do you think they’ll haunt us forever? The world keeps turning, boy. Everything changes. Mark my words, the time will come.”
Ledo kept prophetising about a certain day or time coming so much that it was dangerously close to becoming a catchphrase.
“What’s that got to do with Gella?” Denor fumed, completely ignorant to the point Ledo was making. He stormed off in a huff, incapable of character development at this juncture. People scattered before him like leaves in a gale, even the grown men stepped aside, mostly out of fear that he might start a conversation with them.
***
As he crossed the threshold into Tycho’s home, the storm on his face began to clear. He hurried past the workshop and into the family quarters, where his grandfather lay propped up in bed, looking as crabby as ever. Denor nodded, his voice softening. “I’m home,” he said.
Tycho’s smile was weak, a mere shadow of the man he used to be, and it twisted Denor’s heart like a knife. “Good to see you, Denor. I’ve missed you,” Tycho croaked, his voice as fragile as old parchment.
“How are you feeling?” Denor asked, his tone betraying the worry gnawing at him.
Tycho shrugged. “I feel better now that you’re here,” he rasped.
Denor hoped the old man was right, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that Tycho was trying to convince himself more than him. “Are you delirious, grandfather?” he asked.
“No, no, no.” Tycho waved the idea away with a flicker of his frail fingers. “Now that you’re back, I have everything I need.”
Denor looked at the man’s glazed eyes. He was delirious.
“I had to do something,” Denor admitted, the weight of his actions pressing down on him.
“Your father told me,” Tycho said, pulling a face like he’d bitten into something sour. “I wish you wouldn’t go looking for trouble.”
“If I hadn’t fought back, a Trunian would have killed me,” Denor said, sidestepping the grim details of how it was Gella who was ultimately responsible for the enemy’s fate.
Ledo stepped in behind Denor. “Life’s hard, cruel even. All we can do is keep death at bay for as long as possible.”
Tycho seemed to recover at the sight of Ledo, and fixed his son with a gaze sharp enough to cut glass. “Drinking again, I see. I know how to stop death,” he said. Ledo coughed, more out of embarrassment than anything else, but Tycho wasn’t done. “And I know just how hard and cruel life can be. Don’t think for a second that because I’m old and stuck in this bed, I’ve forgotten who I am. Should this escalate further we both know what is to come.”
To Denor’s surprise, Ledo retreated from the verbal lashing, looking a lot sadder than the boy had ever seen him.
“Are you sure I can’t do anything for you?” he asked again.
“Just take care of yourself,” Tycho replied, his tone softening. “That’s all that matters. I’ve lost too many people I care about, on one battlefield or another. I don’t want you to end up the same.”
“I won’t,” Denor declared, his fist clenching with resolve. He was unkillable! He couldn’t lose himself! Could he?
Tycho grasped Denor’s sleeve and pulled him closer. “I don’t want you to remember me like this. You’ll see, they won’t be ready for what is to come.”
“Yes, grandfather,” the boy replied, agreeing to something he had no understanding of.
Tycho hadn’t heard him, he was asleep.
***
As spring slipped quietly into summer, as it often does when nobody's paying attention, the Andronian’s worries began to take a leisurely stroll toward the horizon. The Trunians, to their pleasant surprise, didn't seem particularly fussed about the mysterious disappearance of a handful of soldiers—perhaps chalking it up to one of those inexplicable acts of nature, like a sleeping Aurox tipping over in a strong wind.
They weren’t overly pleased at the occupation, but they had enough food to survive the climate and their day-to-day lives hadn’t been disrupted too much by the outpost.
Denor didn’t care for their opinions. He had developed a fine art of avoiding things he didn't like, which is to say, most people and their softening views on the Trunian invaders. He spent most of his time roaming the woods, far away from the muddied streets where Gella’s smile haunted him and Stantych strutted about like a rooster who owned the barnyard.
Among the pines and spruces, Denor could sulk and brood in peace, his thoughts accompanied only by the whisper of the wind and the occasional disgruntled squirrel.
He would never be kind to those monsters, they didn’t fool him. The Trunians, not the local squirrels.
One particular afternoon, while perched on a large granite rock munching on a pie, Denor’s solitude was rudely interrupted by a man who seemed to materialize out of thin air.
"Got any more of that?" the stranger inquired, as casually as if he’d been there the whole time.
Denor nearly choked on the crust. The man hadn’t made a sound, which was the sort of thing that really shouldn’t be possible, not if the laws of nature had anything to say about it. His hand instinctively reached for the blaster at his side.
“Pies here! Get your hot pies!” The Vendor declared, appearing out of nowhere without making a sound and offering one on the house to Foggle.
"What do you want?" Denor demanded, his voice somewhere between startled and accusing, as if the stranger had committed the grave sin of breaking the natural order of things.
He had a less critical view of the pie salesman doing the same on account of the food that came with it.
"My name’s a bit of nonsense," the man replied with a bow that suggested he wasn’t entirely serious. "But if you must have one, you may call me Foggle." He looked every bit the wandering seer, complete with the graying hair and beard that reached down his chest like a waterfall of wisdom. His clothes were unremarkable, but the amber jewelry hinted at a life that had seen more than its fair share of strange and wonderful things. "After a long journey, a bite to eat is always welcome," Foggle added, his eyes fixed on Denor’s lunch with the kind of hopeful longing usually reserved for stray dogs.
"I know who you are, Foggle, plus you have your own pie. Congratulations on surviving the destruction of our village.”
“Thank you. I would much rather have some of your pie though.”
“Help yourself," Denor muttered, handing over some of his food, still eyeing the man warily. As Foggle tucked in with the enthusiasm of someone who hadn’t seen a proper meal in days, Denor couldn’t hold back the question burning in his mind. "How did you sneak up on me like that? By Tamet, you could’ve slit my throat before I even knew you were there!"
Foggle’s eyes, twinkling with the kind of mischief that suggested he knew a great many things he wasn’t going to share, merely chuckled. "I am no robber, lad. I only seek what is freely given, like this pie here, and I thank you for your kindness."
"That’s all well and good," Denor pressed, "but you still haven’t answered my question. How could you approach me so silently?"
Foggle chuckled again, though there was a note of seriousness creeping in. "Ah, there are ways, boy. Secrets, if you will. I can’t just give the whole game away in the opening chapters."
"Teach me!" Denor exclaimed, his frustration bubbling over into desperation.
Foggle’s laughter faded, replaced by a solemn expression that made him look much older. "Perhaps I will, if it is your destiny to learn such things. Give me your hand, and I will see if you are meant to know the secrets I hold."
Denor thrust out his hand, half-expecting some trick.
“After you’ve finished the pie, lad. I can’t do my trick with all that meat in the way, it would get very messy.”
Foggle eventually took it in his own. But the tinkerer did not inspect Denor’s palm like a common fortune-teller. Instead, he muttered something in a language that sounded old, ancient even, the kind of language that echoed with power and mystery.
Then, without warning, Foggle’s grip tightened like a vice, his eyes snapping open with a look that could have bored through steel. Denor, thinking this was some kind of test, pushed back with all his might. But despite his strength, Foggle’s grip only tightened, until Denor could feel his bones protesting.
Just as abruptly as it began, the pressure vanished. Foggle released his hand, sweat beading on his brow as if he’d just had a glimpse of something he wished he hadn’t. He wiped his face, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like an expletive.
"And?" Denor asked, his patience thoroughly worn thin. "Can I learn your tricks or not?"
Foggle looked at him with the kind of weariness that suggested he’d just seen a ghost and wasn’t entirely sure it wasn’t still lurking about. "Perhaps," he said quietly, "but be careful what you wish for, lad. Some secrets aren’t meant to be known."
"You are fit for..." Foggle began, dabbing his brow with the kind of fervor usually reserved for the particularly pious or the particularly perplexed. "What you're fit for, son of Ledo, is beyond the reach of your own rather limited comprehension. I mean a cosmic joke is one thing, but never have I seen..." He stopped, shaking his head. "I wonder if I even understand you at all. Your fate is... well, let's just say it’s the strangest I’ve ever tripped over."
Denor, not being one to let a cryptic comment slide, pressed on. "Why?" he demanded, but Foggle, suddenly busy staring off into the middle distance, said nothing. Denor tried a different tack. "When you saw my fate, did you see a Trunian named Stantych?"
Foggle looked at him—or rather, through him, with the unnerving gaze of a man who’s seeing something more interesting just behind your left ear. "Don’t speak of cutting saplings when there’s a tree already threatening to flatten your house. Don’t speak of sparrows when the hawk is already eyeing your chickens. Don’t speak of chickens when there’s a Tyrannosaurus in your back yard. Don’t speak of a Tyrannosaurus when… you get the idea."
"Why are you talking about birds? What’s a Tyrannosaurus? Is that like some kind of Aurox?" Denor asked, completely missing the point as usual.
Foggle seemed utterly unfazed by Denor’s uncomprehending questions. "Your mouth may not have said it," the seer murmured. "But your mind? Oh, the temporal lobe screamed it loud enough to wake the gods from their naps. ‘I’m going to have the most adventures ever!’ And there was another scream—quieter, but persistent, trying to be heard over that roar."
“What did it say?”
Foggle sighed. “You don’t want to know.”
Denor, by this point thoroughly irritated, snapped, "Will you stop with the riddles and speak plainly for once? Your words go round and round like an Andronian tied to a Kilru torture device."
Now why had he come up with that specific response?
Foggle merely smiled. "If you refuse to listen, you’ll be forced to see. Your destiny flies high and far, like a bird that’s had enough of this weather and decided to try its luck elsewhere. Where it will land, and how, I couldn’t say. But if there’s a stranger Andronian out there, I’ve yet to meet him."
Denor scowled, frustration bubbling over. "Lies and nonsense! I should’ve driven you off when you first popped up, instead of feeding you!" he snapped, hoping to provoke a reaction.
But Foggle’s smile only widened. "Few will ever make you regret anything you do," he said, in a tone that suggested he might be one of those few.
That was quite enough for Denor. "Leave me alone!"
"As you wish," Foggle replied, and then, as abruptly as a candle snuffed out by an impatient hand, he was gone. One moment he was there, the next, Denor found himself alone on his rock, with nothing but the rustle of leaves to suggest anything had happened at all.
On the hillside nearby, a goat continued to observe proceedings.