Seth’s hand held his sword without wavering. His grip was steady and his poise unshaken. He had a guest now, unplanned and unwanted, but here, regardless.

“Who are you?” he asked the darkness, still unable to see the man.

“Those are very keen eyes you have, child.” The man created a shuffling sound. It was low and mute yet clear enough to be heard. “Tell me. Can you see this, too?”

A priest was the first thought that came to Seth’s mind. The seminary had sent a priest as a part of this test. A curve ball in a game of baseball where the pitcher only threw straights and fasts.

Doubtful, a mind returned. Never heard his voice before, we’re sure of it.

As true as it was, it wasn’t sufficient evidence to back up the argument. They’d never heard of Somto either. Seth could bet his bottom copper hidden under his mattress back in the seminary that there were more priests alive than the gates of the seminary let them know. Just as Somto lived outside the seminary walls, it was very possible that a priest lived within this forest.

But it didn’t mean he did not agree with his minds. They were right, the man was not a priest.

“Are you sure you can see me,” the man spoke again. His voice had a touch of age in it. Old and wise with a fatigue of time.

A slow left, another mind advised. Just for a beat if you would.

As was always the case, he had no idea if it was the same mind or a different one. All he knew about the individuality of his broken minds was that there were three of them. Separating them and understanding which one thought which thought remained an impossibility unbeaten by time with them.

He obeyed the mind, moved his aim slightly to the left. Then he waited.

“So you know when I move my head,” the old voice mused, “but not when I do this.”

Seth heard another low shuffle he could not place. He ignored it as he had done the one before. The man had no fear of him. He’d crawled his way into his shelter, likely rummaged around in it while he’d been asleep, and now he was having a conversation of curiosity.

“Who are you?” he asked again.

“A wanderer. A traveler going from place to place.”

Lies.

He didn’t know much about travelers but suspected they weren’t as care-free as this. For a moment he wondered if the man showed no fear because he was a child. The idea rolled around in his head before dying a natural death.

He was a child with a sword. The man knew this from his reactions so far. But he continued to converse in curiosity. There was no touch of fear. Caution, certainly. But no fear. None he could sense.

Was it pretense?

A part of him wanted to know, but his minds were not interested. He could feel it. All three fragments were cautious. They would sooner have him cut down whoever this man was than speak to him. They would sooner have him spill blood.

A compromise then.

“Once more.” Seth lowered the tip of his sword. It still faced the man but not so blatantly. “Who are you? How are you here? Why are you here?”

“You know.” The man made a rustling sound like the movement of too many layers of clothes. “Children these days disregard their elders a lot. Personally, I think it’s because of all this magic flying around.” There was no anger in his words, no disdain, merely a curiosity present since the beginning. “They go out there and fight monsters that crawl out of thin air and begin to think themselves more important than their older.”

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Seth was sure of it now. The man was neither a priest nor a wanderer. He was too deceiving with his words. Never straight, always bending. He’d made Seth ask a question more than once. An answer was given once but not committed to. Now he spoke words, abounded them and fashioned an idea. Seth had seen Derek do it more than once, enough times to recognize it. When asked a question he would give an answer strong enough to birth curiosity but would not commit to it. Then, when asked again, he would spin a tale to draw the person’s attention. The purpose wasn’t necessary to guide the person away from what they wanted to know. It was to command the conversation; to control it.

Perhaps it was because he was playing along. Or maybe it was because…

Seth paused. His brows furrowed and he lowered his blade until the point met the ground. Realization came to him in a quiet growth as he listened to the blizzard blazing outside, a rondo of hate in its existence. He wasn't cold.

Why wasn’t he cold?

In the beginning he could’ve attributed it to his state of panic. He’d lacked the presence of mind to pay much else any attention. But that was gone, fled like a prey under the notion of a potential predator. So why wasn’t he cold? If anything, he was feeling better, more alive, warm.

“May we light a fire?” his guest asked.

He ignored the man. Besides his dream of dancing shadows and oppressed lights, what else was different. No. All that had happened while he slept. Much could happen to the body while it slept but rarely were they born of events of the sleep. This was something else.

He cast him mind further back. Before him the man rummaged about, his movements raised a constant sound of ruffling clothes. Seth almost lost his focus to wonder just how much clothes the man had on him. But he didn’t. It was not important, not right now.

Seth was certain the man was no longer where his blade had been pointing when the answer came to him.

The meat.

He cast his gaze from side to side, darkness still his oppressor. He saw nothing as he remembered he’d been poisoned. In actuality, he’d poisoned himself.

“No.” He scowled. “You poisoned me.”

Off to the side of his shelter, his guest’s rummaging stopped. “I did no such thing.”

Seth’s brows furrowed in amusement. Was that panic he’d heard?

We don’t think poison makes you feel better, Seth, one of his minds thought in rebuttal of his accusation. If anything it should sicken you.

“Doesn’t change the fact that I was poisoned.” Seth felt his neck with the back of his free hand. He was hot, his temperature sky high. It was almost as if he had a fever. “But I don’t feel feverish.”

“That’s because I didn’t poison you,” his guest protested into the silence.

He was still unmoving. Seth wondered at that. Was the man afraid he would attack due to a misunderstanding?

You ate the meat of your own accord, a mind replied. We didn’t force you.

“Keep telling yourself that.”

“For the love of great Anda, I did not—Ow.”

A sound erupted from where his guest was perched. It was of falling wood hitting something soft but firm. The man swore under his breath and sucked briefly on something.

We’re really beginning to think that whatever he is, he’s not a threat, one of Seth’s minds thought.

Agreed, another opined. We mean, look at him.

Seth would, if he could. But he could not. The night was still as dark as what could be found under a low set bed. Instead, he leaned forward and searched the ground with his free hand. He touched it gently in an arc around him, tapped and touched, rubbed and caressed. After a while he stopped. Wherever he’d ended up throwing the scabbard of the sword, it was nowhere near him. Unwilling to rise in search of it, he lay the sword gently beside him so that he remained an obstacle between it and the man and laid down.

He stared at the ceiling of his shelter while his guest resumed his rummaging. The man picked and poked at his stack of firewood in search of something sufficient to light a fire.

Seth paid it little heed, listening only in case the man came closer than he was comfortable with. He’d had a hand in the cause of the death of many men before but never had he killed a man. He was no fool to think it would be easy and not too young to know it was not a task he was ready for. But he had been taught to maim and harm, to decapitate and decimate. Something told him that should he need it, he could bring significant pain to a fellow human before his conscience stood in his way.

It would be easier to maim a man in the dark if he could not see the damage he wrought.

The noise continued for a while, riddled with invectives. Each one was less than delightful, mundane, and quite lacking in innovation. There was ‘horsepiss,’ ‘horseshit,’ ‘cowdung,’ ‘yellowpiss,’ ‘dwent’ was one he’d never heard and was inclined to believe belonged to a language that was not English. Regardless, none impressed him.

Finally, after enough cusses and enough scattering, the man found something sufficient. Wood was stacked at a reasonable point in the shelter, well away from the path of the entrance where much of the blizzard air stormed its way in. As the man stacked the wood and arranged the fire, curiosity snuck up on Seth. He wanted to see how the man would kindle a flame.

His guest struck a match and Seth found himself dismayed.