He lay on the grass covered ground of a clearing in the forest, a place where Kalla would often take down a tree for Ignar to chop into smaller logs for storage later. His back was against a birch stump that was left there from yesterday's hard work. It was sort of a reminder that that day had actually happened, and it was not just a dream or a memory so fragmented you could hardly remember which tree you felled.

Perhaps months from now, he might not even be sure if he himself had chopped down the tree into logs, or if it had been another, someone else entirely, perhaps Kalla in his lonesome.

Above, the clouds drifted past, uncovering a blue sky as the sunrays placed themselves on his face. He supposed that life was beautiful, wonderful, even. But he was unsure if the feelings he felt were real or somehow unreal. Somehow something that didn’t innately belong to him.

It felt wrong, but somehow this ability to experience such things felt nostalgic. It felt like something that he had dearly missed. It was something that he had been without for so long, something that was nothing more than a memory unlocked by nostalgia and the melancholic moments in which you dream about the past—the past self that was more pleasant than the one that you had become. One that was less bitter about the change that had occurred; one that was you, but someone else entirely... One that you wished to find again, to rekindle the you that you once were.

But why? He was not someone else, nor did he have a memory of being someone else, nor did he have that self that he desired to become again. Or was there? And if there were, surely that boy that he was was someone who he would not like to be again.

Time was a curious topic, one that he had pondered for a while now. One day, you have just arrived at this cottage, which was practically in the middle of nowhere, but the next day, one that is years from that aforementioned day, is suddenly here.

It was as if yesterday he had been that skinny boy in despair, one without hope, and now he had become a young man, and days just felt like they went by so quickly. Before, a day and its many moments sometimes felt like an eternity. As if the work and studying that he had to go through almost every day felt boring, but somehow something he could barely remember.

When he was younger, it felt like he could remember every day in detail; every insignificant interaction or moment when he found himself chopping firewood was a moment worth remembering. But now, he couldn’t tell which stumps were of his creation or which days he learned something new and wonderful.

The days molded and transformed into one, a collection of things, of memories which he could barely place in order, and most of what was in between was forgotten, or just momentarily lost its importance as a memory, and thus recluded somewhere deep into his memories, waiting to be one day activated, to be remembered again, perhaps in a sentimental moment, perhaps once again facing a stump like this, or a page in a book that he had read before, then sparking those thoughts to be remembered in a moment of bliss, of yearning for simpler times and a simpler image of self.

He wondered if he would have a moment like that in the future; if he would fondly remember times like these, maybe they would shield him from the suppressed trauma that sometimes returned to him in nightmares, a field and a pile of bodies, ash, and the smell of death. Sometimes he would see a dream in which he would be aimlessly walking forward in the forest, then collapsing and soon losing consciousness, only to again wake up in the bed that had become his since that day.

But moments like these, when he could just leisurely spend his free time in deep thought and reflecting on things that seemed important even though they might’ve not been that important, were the moments he enjoyed the most. He couldn’t help but smile because of this thought, and a smile seldom goes unnoticed.

“A beautiful day, isn’t it?” A sudden voice suddenly spoke somewhere behind him. The voice contained a hint of hesitation.

He could feel the heart in his chest begin to beat ever so slightly faster, and with that, a question rose into his mind: What the hell is he supposed to answer, and how is one supposed to talk to people you don’t know or are not prepared to speak to?

"Uh, I suppose—it is a bit too warm for my liking, but as one has no work to do, then it is somehow fine.” He answered soon after, finding the words that he wanted to say or had to say at that moment, lest there be a long moment of awkward silence.

Finally, he decided to get up and face the person he was supposed to have a normal conversation with. As he got up, to his surprise, he found a person who wore light armor and a sword on her hip; she didn’t have a helmet on, so he could freely observe her facial features and expressions.

On her face, there was a stern expression, which perhaps hinted that the person was one who would carefully follow orders in an orderly fashion. Maybe she would be someone who would take everything seriously.

She was probably a lot older than he was, and the way she carefully kept her hand on the pommel of her saber was somehow leisurely and non-aggressive. But she was clearly ready to slice him in two if he ever made any sudden movements.

She eyed him from head to toe and then looked past him, observing the clearing that she had just found out about. “Chopping wood is indeed hard work—do you perhaps live in the nearby village?”

Ignar shook his head. “I live in a cottage nearby.”

“That does make a lot more sense; falling trees so far away from the village does seem unnecessarily time-consuming.”

“Well, yes, and even still, the cottage I call home is perhaps a mile from here; my father insists that we fall the trees further away from our house and then carry them there.” He cleared his throat. “He says that it does good for a young man to see hard labor as if doing it close to the house wouldn’t be hard labor.”

She blinked her eyes. “Your father sounds awfully authoritarian, so a man to my liking.”

Ignar scoffed. “Maybe you’ll soon meet him, and then you can decide for yourself; I for one believe that he is far too authoritarian.”

The woman shrugged. “The man I work for is similar, and perhaps much more than your father, but yes, I would like to see him for myself. Could you show me the way to your father?”

Should he? She had a sword with her, and she wore armor; she was someone ready for combat at all times, and the scales that covered her face told a story of great magic—less than his father, but still. Combat wasn’t always about who was seemingly the more powerful one; skill would always be above raw power.

“He doesn’t really like meeting new people." He said at last, and as he was about to deny her, he noticed how her grip around the pommel of her sword shifted: “But we don’t really own this forest, now do we? And just between you and me, if he then becomes angry with me, could you, you know, put in a good word for me? Maybe you can tell him that you kind of forced me to show you the way, or something?”

Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

She seemed to hesitate for a moment; her grip had shifted its way around the handle of her sword, and her eyes observed carefully the boy that stood before her. To her, he seemed anxious, and she must have noticed that he had noticed the shift in her grip around the sword.

She sighed and let her hand fall from her sword. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Ignar smiled widely. “For that, I would be most grateful; besides, he never lets me leave the forest, so I never get to meet new people, so maybe this will make him angry enough to banish me from our home?” He said and began walking toward the direction where the cottage would be. He made sure not to look behind to see if she would follow him or not. His heart beat faster than it was necessary, and he felt like he could barely keep up the jolly mask on his face.

“I wouldn’t put that past him." The woman muttered, but Ignar was already far enough away and too deep in his own thoughts to hear her.

For some reason, he wasn’t as afraid as he thought that he should be. This woman was obviously someone he didn’t know, nor was she someone that he could so easily or openly trust. And the sword on her hip was basically an active threat of violence; why else would she carry one?

Sure, it could be for self-protection, but why have something like that when she had the face that she had, one full of scales, no less than his or Kalla's? So perhaps the sword served as something else; perhaps it told the world what her work was and who she worked for.

A soldier, no less. Perhaps someone higher on the old military rankings, but to make a guess, it was unlikely that she would be higher than a sergeant, for who would send a second lieutenant or higher to some woods?

Maybe she had gone rogue, or maybe she was an assassin sent here to kill his old father; after all, his father was old and often very unlikeable, so whoever would want to kill him probably had a reason to do so. For some reason, Ignar felt that it would be easier to name the people that Kalla hadn’t offended.

But with such thoughts, as they walked in the woods, by now they both could easily see the cabin in the woods and for his mind, there would be no rest given, as he uselessly thought of things that might help him in combat or with just running away.

Even if he understood that hate for Kalla and wanting his death were most likely fairly reasonable wants given the man’s personality, he still wouldn’t want him to die. He was, after all, his father.

And for any son, would it be easy to witness, aid, or even be the cause of death for his very own father? But alas, they had reached the door, and the woman was right behind him, ready for anything and all that might be behind the door or any action that Ignar might take in such a moment.

And it was obvious, for both of them, that Ignar was hesitating, and they both knew that whatever action he took, his death would then be instantaneous.

So, visibly defeated, he opened the door. “Dad? We have a visitor!” He exclaimed as soon as he could; at least then no one could blame that he hadn’t tried warning his own father of the possible death that would soon enter through the front door.

Ignar could now see Kalla sitting on his chair, fiddling with a pencil in his fingers, and staring right back at them. On his face, there was no surprise and soon a wicked smile. “Erjen, oh, how I’ve waited for you!” He exclaimed dramatically and got up from his chair, only to scoff and sit back down. “Come in, oh, won’t you come in... But please, try to keep that bad luck of yours on the other side. Then again, I suppose that for you that is impossible since you always bear such great news with you.” He continued with his tone, becoming more sarcastic with each sentence.

Erjen stepped past Ignar; on her lips there seemed to be a slight smile as she said, “It is always a pleasure to speak to a man no less senile than my own father. Since you have guessed the reasons why I am here, then you might as well share these reasons with me as well; perhaps we can match our stories, you know, for the coming accusations of collusion.”

“Senile? Me? Perhaps, but colluding? For that, we would need evidence."

It was Erjen’s turn to scoff: “I and half of the Empire know of your talents in the art of collusion, treachery, torture, and questionable investigation methods, which also happen to be among the reasons why I am sent here and why you are needed back once more.”

“How lovely!" Kalla shook his head and stared at Ignar for a moment. “Boy, witness how a man can never run away from his own shadow, not his crimes, nor from his presumed virtues, and then witness how neither of those are for me or you to judge, but the big man himself.”

His gaze drifted back to the woman, who had begun investigating the things that she could see inside the cottage. “Say, what do you know about gods?”

Erjen stopped and slowly turned around. On her face, there was a warning.

“Is this a question for me or her?” Ignar asked as silence seemed to be the only answer for a moment.

Kalla smiled, “Well, you, of course.”

“I suppose, if you look at it through the eyes of history, they are men and women who were elevated to that level by people who lived long after those presumed gods. Then there is the big question of faith, and how does one even explain that, since it seems to be far more complex than a simple does exist or doesn’t exist question."

“So gods are just people, like you and I?” Kalla asked, and Ignar nodded in response.

“See how well I’ve raised my son? Giving textbook answers and everything, and if I were to push him further on this question, he would come out as an atheist, or so I would hope.”

“But it is interesting since his father isn’t an atheist but rather a staunch believer and a renowned theist.” Kalla quickly added, “So, what is the word of the Lord on this beautiful day?”

Erjen peered at him from under her brows and even gave Ignar a slight look. “He wants you back.”

Kalla grimaced. “And why, exactly?”

Erjen smiled. "I can't really say here; I don’t want to actually be accused of collusion."

Kalla raised his brows and, with a defeated smile, announced, “Exciting news, Ignar, my son, we are going to the Court of the Almighty! There you might, for yourself, decide if gods are men or the other way around."

He got up from his chair and stared at Ignar, and with a smile added, “But do be afraid; gods are never as merciful nor insane as the stories might tell.” He leaned closer, and as if whispering, he said, “They are often more... insane, that is.”

His eyes met Erjen's, and he couldn’t help but smile. There was neither hostility in this smile nor distaste for her. There seemed to be many things Ignar didn’t know about his father, but he presumed that he would soon find out about the things that he had never mentioned to him before.