Stefan has heard the tale before. Not Soren's tale, specifically, but all of them. Living in beorc world. Ignoring the aging process. Watching the companion fade. The anguish, pain, the inability to cope with an inevitable future. As Soren speaks, he doesn't look Stefan in the eye. His stare is fixed on his hands, occasionally lifting his head to gaze out the window on the far wall. He rubs his eyes in irritation.

"I had nowhere to go," he says. "He was the only one I wanted to be with. I left his sword there. It was stupid. But it marks his burial site, as Commander Greil's weapon once marked his. I found it fitting. He would have liked that."

"Even though Greil's is no longer there?"

Soren glares at him. "What are you implying?"

"Nothing." Stefan shrugs and leans back in his chair, crossing his arms.

Soren mindlessly twirls a strand of dark hair between his fingers. "I don't understand why I'm telling you this. We're not friends."

"No," Stefan says. "Perhaps not."

He proceeds.

It's not the particulars of his tale that Stefan pays attention to. He knows all that. But he witnesses a slight change in Soren's attitude, a softening around the edges. Forty years of this bitter solitude. The years mean nothing to Stefan, but his companion is just beginning to comprehend their extended lifespan.

"You loved him," Stefan says. Soren had stopped speaking.

"Yes."

Stefan raises an eyebrow.

"Not like that, you fool."

He raises his palms in defense. "I don't judge."

Soren sighs heavily, frustrated.

Stefan should be offended that Grann is the last resort, but has come to an understanding. He always offers, but doesn't expect an immediate reply. It is not until the Branded learn how different they are that they seek him. Could be several years. Or decades. But the moment they step onto the sands, he knows. He senses their presence, and he recognizes that someone has come for his support.

Even if the other party does not believe he needs it.

"How long am I to live, anyway?" Soren asks out of nowhere.

Stefan shrugs. "Hard to say. Dragon blood? You could survive me." He pauses. "Want to take over the colony?"

"Funny."

"I wasn't trying."

His companion examines the grooves in the tabletop, head lowered. "And you? What is your age?"

There is no reply for some time. Stefan frowns. "After time, you cease to count."

"You don't know?" Soren lifts his head.

"I didn't say that." He rises from his chair. "Come. You should be situated. It is late."

"Where?"

Stefan jerks his head toward the door. Soren follows him out, obedient, exhausted. There are people bustling about the street, visiting friends and retiring to their homes. They look curiously from the corner of their eyes at the newcomer. There is no novelty in a new neighbor; many have previously witnessed the arrival of their kin. But it has been ages since the cottage at the end of the street has been empty, waiting.

It had been reserved, though it took longer than expected for its occupant to arrive.

Soren hardly notices the space as they enter, nor does he pay attention to the comfort of the mattress he falls on to. His weariness is immediate, as if the years have finally caught up with him. He faces the wall, curling into the fetal position. He is instantly asleep, the red cloak concealing his small frame. Stefan leans against the doorframe, arms crossed.

"You were right," a small voice says behind him. Stefan glances over his shoulder.

"About?"

"His coming here." Amy advances, mirroring his stance against the opposite doorframe. "I didn't think he would."

"You don't trust me?" he says, smirking.

"No! That's not… I mean…"

Stefan waves a hand in dismissal, cutting her off. He pulls the door closed, leaving the newcomer to sleep. "He may rest a while. It has been a difficult journey."

"More difficult than mine?" Her voice is sweet, but there is an injured undertone.

"You know I will not compare." He stares long at the closed door, Amy shifting restlessly from foot to foot. "Did you require something?"

"No…" she says, hesitantly. "I just thought… maybe not. It's too early. To talk to him, I mean."

He places a hand on her back, guiding them away. "Perhaps." Amy had mentioned her encounter with Soren, briefly, when she first arrived. The interaction was not promising, she claimed, but Stefan understood. The Branded didn't simply wander aimlessly, at least not in the direction of the desert, without a destination.

Amy bids him goodnight before retiring home, greeting several of their people on the way. She has already made friends in Grann, despite her short duration here. Her transition was fairly easy. But he recalls that first evening, when she cried into her hands over Mama and Papa, refusing to look into his eyes. Seldom do they have parents prior to arrival. He still has not determined whether a loving family is a blessing or a curse.

Stefan lingers in the middle of the path. Many people pass, but they don't acknowledge him. They know this stance. Staring at a new home, having recently departed from welcoming a newcomer. Even if they were to greet him, it is unlikely he would notice. His mind is far gone, contemplating Soren. Mentally reviewing his tale, he mulls over the best means of his settling in. But it is more than mere comfort. It is the people he will interact with, the new lifestyle he must adopt. He can picture Soren's former life in his mind, he sees the anguish like he experienced it himself. Not only is the emotion raw, it's still festering. It has been for forty years. It may never heal.

The sun rises over the dunes, and Stefan breaks out of his trance. His hands itch, feeling suddenly empty without the heft of a blade within them. It's self-conditioning, the need to spar at sunrise.

But not today. He retreats into his cottage, staring at the table at which they were seated all night. It is a necessary exhaustion, the introductory conversation. A hazing of sorts, prior to initiation. Stefan had done it before, many times, with his kindred. And he will do it again, willingly, for however long he has left.