"Live, Gabranth." Drace' words returned again and again, echoing, whispering from a shadowed hallway of his mind. Almost it seemed he could reach the voice, but then a flash of pain caused him to recoil as he felt the sword...was the blade in his hand or in his side?

He felt warmth in his throat, a strange bittersweet substance that caused his body to convulse even as it stole the pain.

"This to you if I be gone. Drink, and cheat the hand that would break the shield." A ghostly form, solemn and worn, distorted and fading, held out a shapeless hand and withdrew again to the mists.

"Noah." Yet another voice, familiar but ever so distant, reached out to him.

Faintly his heart rose.

"Let this go."

The shadows lifted and fell, his heart sighed, and he drifted away on a nameless sea.

The elderly healer, summoned from seclusion to the aftermath of victorious sorrow, came to the darkened room. He was shadowed by his young charge, and his eyes took a moment to adjust to the dancing light of candle-flame.

The form upon the cot appeared at once lifeless and cold. The figure beside it was dark and forbidding, masked and stoic. And yet it did not escape the old man when the gloved figure reached out to hold the still hand in a fleeting embrace.

"Rest him where he may always be at peace."

The figure rose to stand momentarily in silent vigil, and then turned and disappeared like a ghost.

The boy looked without expression on the lifeless face before him.
He had seen death before, but his heart grieved as it ever had for one long lost to him.

Alongside the old man he secured the body and covered it like a pauper's corpse with a linen sheet. Together they wheeled the cot upon which the body lie through the side door to the Chocobo-drawn storage carriage that waited. They had driven into the darkness and out across deserted and dangerous lands, upon roads known to very few, finally arriving at their destination.

Now as he washed the body in preparation for the burial procedures, he sadly noted the deep wounds.

A scrape on his hand, earned when the carriage hit a bump, begin to sting, and he reached for the bag he'd prepared for the journey. He had hoped then that the one they were called for would yet be in need of healing care.
He shuffled through the glass jars and herbal supplies and pulled out a salve.

"Are you finished, Faolyn?" The aged voice startled him, and the bag of supplies spilled out onto the bed and body. Nervously he scooped them up, returning them to the tote, but the damage had been done.
One precious and pricey liquid had emptied out upon the unknowing form.

"Sorry. I'm sorry." The boy nervously reached for a cloth, scattering the bag once again, and the old man reached for his hand.

"Calm yourself," he said gently, worry upon his wrinkled brow. "Is this too much for you, young one?"
The old man received a short negative shake of the head in reply as the boy worked to set to right the supplies.
"Go on to bed, boy. I'll finish here. We'll lay him to rest tomorrow morning with the gentle dawn."

The boy's light eyes shadowed and he became grim, but he lost his nervousness and calmly returned the bottles, herbs, and salves to their places.
At the doorway he stopped, looked to the body, and turned again to be followed by his shadow down the dimly lit hallway.

The old man listened to the sound of retreating footsteps and then turned to the body of the man before him.
"Who are you?" he asked softly.

Summoned to claim the body of this unnamed soul after so many years away from that life…

Beckoned for a man who was not to be publicly mourned…would not be seemingly missed...

This one was a soldier most like, by his many scars. Perhaps he had saved a life deemed worthy or performed an act of bravery and this slight memory was counted his reward.

But why such secrecy?

The old man sighed deeply. Such intrigue and deception. Just one of the reasons he'd shunned the graces of the nobles.

He moved the rag from where the boy had dabbed the spilled liquid and frowned.
The wounds were somewhat knit...
There was color where color should not now be...
If he were lifeless, the potion should have no effect...

The old man bent over first the chest and then the face, intent. He left the body and turned to rummage through the bag, cabinet, and table.
Not pleased with his find, he exited the room. After some time he returned carrying a small vial tightly in hand. He brought it before his eyes and studied it closely, and then shifted his gaze to the one before him.

"Would they deem you worth this price?" He cupped a hand behind the limp head, dripping the sparse liquid between dry, bloodied lips.

The day came quietly, long fingers of light piercing the cracks in the worn shutters, caressing the still form playfully, prying open the nodding eyes of the old man in the corner chair, and glistening off the washbasin.

The shadows of night found the scene the same but for one change; the boy sat in place of the aged man.

And so it continued, come dawn of morn and close of day, with all the rituals of care between, for three weeks full and half again the same.

"Why do you not waken?" The old man sponged wine through the parched lips as he murmured questions that received no answer. "And what would we find if you should?" This he added silently as outwardly he sighed.

"I-I can take care of him...if you need to be elsewhere." Nervous and stumbling and then rushed the words came…but they came.

So seldom the boy spoke that the old man was startled. He hesitated...
What if this man should die after all? The boy had suffered enough loss in his short time.
Still... Yes, yes. It would be good for him to be able to help. "You know what to do."
It was confirmation, rather than question. The boy was an apt student.

"Come quick, father Tarachande! Help us!"

The old man jumped from his bed of sleep, his heart racing, as a frantic voice shouted and footsteps raced down the hallway to his room.
He calmed himself and draped a long robe around his shoulders just as fierce pounding threatened to splinter the door.
"What is it?" His voice was gruff as he confronted the wide-eyed help.

Out of breath and unable to speak, the housekeeper pointed toward the invalid's room.
Through the hallway he went, with the nervous woman on his heels, the sounds of struggle and shouting becoming ever clearer with each step.
Irritation on his face, the old man pushed the door open and stopped in amazement.

On the bed the invalid thrashed about in an apparent state of feverish nightmares, wild and mumbling incoherently from between clenched teeth.
Beside the bed two field hands were trying to subdue him.
They had managed to tie his wrists to the bed posts and were trying, quite unsuccessfully, to bind his feet the same. Another stood to the side, nursing a bloodied nose.
And in the middle of it all, the old man saw his young charge standing defiantly in resistance to the efforts of the other workers.

"Get away from him! Leave him be!" The young voice trembled not with fear but with anger.

The bloody-nosed worker seized the boy's arm and jerked him aside roughly.
"If you don't get out of the way, boy, I'll thrash you good."

"Let him go." The old man's words were calm and quiet, but they had an immediate effect.

The workers stopped their struggle and unhanded the boy, watching warily as the old man approached.

He took in all and stood beside the bed for a moment before turning to question his charge.
"Are you all right, Faolyn?"

"Yes." The boy lowered his eyes uncertainly.

"What is this?" the old man demanded of the workers.

Now unsure, they looked one from another, finally settling on one as their spokesman.
"We were in the kitchen when we heard this here patient of yours start carrying on. We were scared he was gonna hurt somebody or tear up something."

"He's a danger to himself and us!" another offered

"Right, so we thought we'd best secure him before he hurt the boy!"

"Ah, yes. I can see how deep is your concern for the boy." Father Tarachande's voice was as dry as the glint in his eye was sharp, and the three shuffled uncomfortably.
"We'll handle it from here. Good night." The finality in his words abruptly excused the hands.

The blood-nosed young man glared at the boy, and the three quit the room, perplexed and offended.

On the bed, their patient breathed heavily. Sweat dampened his hair and skin.

"...Larsa...my lord..." His words were jumbled and faded. And then suddenly he shouted, voice hoarse but words clear, "Vayne! No!"

The boy's eyes darted to the old man who stood beside the bed calmly ringing out the rag he'd dipped into the basin. Isolated they might live, but the boy listened well. Of the war and of recent upheaval in Arcades he knew enough. What did these words mean?

The old man dismissed the boy's unspoken questions. "Pay no mind to what you hear, son. The unwell will say many things."

The old man approached the bed carefully, but the patient seemed to sense his presence and began to groan and struggle as if his subconscious pulled the strings of the unconscious puppet body. Whatever his mind commanded, he could only twist and turn in his feverish state, though he succeeded in knocking the old man's arm away and the basin with it. The contents spilled across the floor in a sharp clatter.

The patient gasped and his face twisted in pain as his body heaved against his binds. A small trickle of blood escaped from a confined wrist as he pulled at the ropes.

The old man scowled as he wiped his robe dry.

"It's okay, it's okay. You're safe. It's okay."

Startled, the old man looked to the bed to see the boy quietly calming the patient, gently washing his face and smoothing back his hair with the damp rag. Almost the old man chided the child and recalled him from the bedside, wishful of ordering the lad clear of the strong legs that could kick like a beast. But the wounded man seemed comforted, stopped straining so against his bonds, and finally settled back into his rest under the boy's care.

The look on the boy's face was sorrow. "Will he die?"

Again the old man sighed. This he had feared, seeing the boy become attached.
He carefully checked the man's vitals and watched his chest rise and fall.

Recent scars crossed old mutilations across the man's chest and back, baring witness to the harm man can do to man.
Deep, dark bruises, red, purple, and black yet spread along the ribs the old man had bound. Whelped lines of crimson, angry still, were evidence of blows that the stoutest armor could not tame.

How many nights had he listened to the shallow breathing and felt the erratic pulse while fever raged? How many nights had he thought that the answer to the boy's dread question would be yes, and that the work of elixirs, salves, herbs, and the hours spent cleansing, repairing, and tying wounds would all come to failure. And yet...

"Slowly but surely his body mends. His mind...that is another thing. Of his heart who is to say. I believe it will depend on his will to survive, or perhaps the lack thereof, to decide his fate."
He waved the boy away from the bed. "Come, Faolyn, let us return to our rooms and sleep tonight. We have done for him all that we can for now."

"But we must untie him!" The boy persisted. "And what of the workers? What if they come back?"

So many words from this quiet lad. The old man watched the young face. Not so young as he'd been when he'd come to this place at the tender age of eight. How many years now? Six? Yes, he had grown. Silently and alone, in this so solitary place, the uprooted and battered seedling had taken hold and survived.

"I will cut him free, but I think it best I lock him in tonight so that he might not hurt himself. I will leave word that he is not to be disturbed. They will not bother him if they wish to keep their positions, and they will be hard pressed to find better. No, I think he will be fine 'til morn."

The boy was unsure and unconvinced; it was written clearly on his serious brow, but he silently obeyed the old man's wish and went slowly up the stairs to his room.

...And so the shadow of House Solidor had reached even here.

Long after the house fell silent, the old man paced the floor of his room wide awake and worried. What manner of man or monster had he sheltered in this once peaceful place?

At earliest morning light a familiar Chocobo squawk and persistent knock at the door signaled the birth of the day's business.

The rider, accustomed to the generosity of the house, entered to spread his wares upon the table and wait for the complimentary meal to be set before him.

The old man had seen the arrival from his window and came now down the stairs to greet the trader. He lifted a hand in acknowledgment and received a nod in return from the dusty arrival, and then he turned to the goods.

Turning over the pieces of metal and stone in his hand he frowned. Broken and worn, all. None were worth much. Even the herbs were of the common sort one could pick up in the field just outside.

The tradesman noted the old man's disappointment and nodded sadly. "I am sorry, sir. The foul weather has made things difficult for our hunters. And..." The young man trailed off hesitantly.

"And?" The old man turned.

"Well...with the return of Lady Ash and the talks of peace with the Empire..."

"Yes?"

"Many are moving into the city and are taking jobs rebuilding and such. And-and some are marrying and turning to thoughts of family...some such as myself."
The young man looked embarrassed and a bit ashamed.
"I am sorry, father Tarachande, to leave you without a gatherer...but my fiancé wishes to return to Dalmasca, her homeland, and I wish only to be with her."
He blushed crimson and the old man sighed heavily in exasperation, waving his hand as if he could brush away such nonsensical talk.
"It is a time for hope, sir!" the young man insisted. "Surely you were yourself once in love?"

The old man sighed again but this time softly. "All men must be fools at least once in their lives."

The young man dropped his gaze sadly, and the old man relented. "But if one must be a fool, at least be a fool for love and a fool with hope." He smiled and held out a hand. It was eagerly grasped and heartily shaken.

The young groom-to-be sat out upon his eager chocobo with a generous bag of coins and a few choice potions to add to his hope, leaving behind the wilted herbs, broken metals, and the old man without a gatherer.

The old man watched him go morosely. Even in this disregarded place, the war had drawn many of the young men away from their homes. Still, there had always been some fledgling, too young to fight or left behind to watch over what remained of their family, willing to take up the task of bringing back the semi-rare finds that helped to make up the medicinal items for which they called upon him. …This for a pouch of Gil, of course, but with at least some moderation of success until now.

Tarachande sighed. Barely soon enough the war had ended. Much longer and who could say if the boy in his own care would have been tempted to join the conflict.

"Where is the boy?" He scraped the rubbish into a bin and rubbed his eyes tiredly. So little rest he was able to find these recent nights.

The maid's eyes turned nervously toward the invalid's room, and the old man growled.
Of course.
Perhaps it was time the boy took on other responsibilities.
Perhaps it would be best for him to have something more useful on his mind.
Perhaps...
He entered the door and stopped short.
The room was empty.

The tall man's eyes, set in a face like to have been carved from stone, stared joylessly into the misted half-light of morning.
His steps were deceptively steady for one in his physical state and seemed purposeful, though they had been wandering without aim for long now.
He was both mournful and fearsome in visage. But the young man at his side, by comparison made to seem small and frail beyond truth, was unafraid.

Almost Faolyn had to run to keep up with the long strides, but he stayed in the man's long shadow, reading quietly from the worn book in his hands.
It seemed to him that the man was comforted by the sound of his voice though there was nothing in his expression to say he recognized the words spoken to him.

Such was the boy's concentration on both his steps and the pages that he did not see the dark viper rise from the thick weeds until it was suddenly towering over him, threatening fangs bared and dripping venom on the wilting grass at his feet.

Instinct told him to shield himself and he raised the book as a defense and a weapon, but the man at his side, wounded as he was and without armor or weapon, was at once between boy and serpent.

The viper sensed a true opponent and rose even higher, pulling itself to full height, gathering for a fatal strike. And strike it did.

The boy gasped as the man knocked him down and could only stare helplessly from the ground as the fangs blurred toward him.
He caught his breath when the viper suddenly jerked awkwardly, held around the neck by two large fists. He watched with racing heart as the serpent went limp. A definitive slam against a boulder signaled the end, the viper dropping dead from an unforgiving hand.

Gathering the book and scrambling to his feet, the boy hurried to the man's side. He opened the pouch he carried and collected the lifeless viper within; father Tarachande could use parts in his medicinal formulas. Perhaps it would help to keep him from being overly upset...

"Are you well, my lord?"

The voice spoke so clearly that the boy stopped, startled. "Y-Yes."
My lord?
He looked up to search the man's face.

"There you are!"

"You're coming with us!"

"Father Tarachande is looking for you!"

"Put a bounty on your pretty head, he did!"

Suddenly he saw them, the field workers, trampling toward them, calling from across the meadow.

The boy felt tightness in his chest. His eyes darted like a frightened, wild thing.

He had never gotten along with the others.
They saw him as strange, silent, and anti-social and never tired of mocking him or pointing out what they saw as his deficiencies to the old man.
When he was near them he always felt trapped.

"Come on! We have to go!" Urgently he called to the man at his side and whirled around, running toward a secret path back to the house.

"After him!"

"Don't let him go! We'll lose the reward!"

"It's he what catches him that wins the prize!"

Faolyn felt panic rising as he heard the greed and hostility in the voices of those chasing after him. In his distress he tripped, falling hard and feeling a sharp burst of pain as his ankle twisted beneath him.

"Oh no..." He managed to get to his feet but could only awkwardly stumble on.
The man who had protected him so quickly from the serpent now moved only slowly some steps behind as if awaiting direction.

"Fi-Finally!"

"Whoo..."

The field hands circled around, doubled over and gasping for air but pleased with their triumph. A rough hand grabbed his arm.

"Now I just have to decide how to spend that reward."

"What about him?" Someone asked with a nod toward the silent patient.

"Who cares. The reward isn't for him."

"Anyway, what do you mean you have to decide? The reward is mine. I got here first."

"But I got him first!"

"I saw him first, and that's what matters!"

The bickering escalated, and the workers pulled the boy back and forth between them.

"Let me go!" Faolyn grimaced in pain both from the injury to his ankle and also from the tight grip on his arms. "Please, let me go!"
The boy wrenched free for a moment, but his ankle would not sustain his weight as he attempted to flee. He was easily overtaken and pulled back into the confines of the group.

"Listen here, boy. Don't do that again, or I'll forget what the old man said about not hurting you. Understand?"

The boy, fighting for air as anxiety threatened to overtake him, shoved at the worker and earned a heavy hand to the side of his face.

For a moment he couldn't see or hear, and then suddenly he was free and falling to the ground... Why was he free?
On his knees, he looked up to see the tall man glaring darkly into the face of the frightened worker cowering before him.
A short distance away another worker was bent over another who was lying unconscious on the ground.

"Please," the trembling field hand glanced at the boy from the corner of his eye, "Please don't let him hurt us. We'll leave you alone, I promise. Just-just tell him to leave us alone."
The worker's hands were shaking in fear as he raised them in helpless defense.

The boy took in the scene, for a time seduced by his desire for vengeance and the feeling of power that his companion gave him.
Then he recalled what the old man had once wearily told him, "Son, always remember, revenge only produces two sets of bloody hands."
The boy sighed and the blood-lust dissipated.
Moving to the tall man's side, he put a hand on his arm. "It's okay. Let them go. It's okay."

Slowly the worker was released and scampered to help his wounded friend, throwing hunted looks behind as they retreated.

"Thank you." Faolyn spoke hesitantly, looking into the face of the man who'd saved him twice in the span of one morning.

He felt a bond.
Perhaps it was because this man too was different than the others.
Perhaps because he sensed loss on the man, something he all too well understood.
Perhaps he saw a link to a life outside this solitary place.
Or perhaps it was that for once there was someone willing to protect him and someone for him also to protect.
But he received no response from the man, whose glazed orbs, like a hazy gray-blue sky, seemed to look through the boy as if seeing something or someone else altogether.

Disappointment settled over Faolyn, and he slowly limped toward the house, wincing with ever footfall.
He was surprised when a hand took his arm to support him, but he looked gratefully to the silent man at his side.

When they came through the back door and entered the dining area they found father Tarachande sitting at the table, drumming his fingers methodically on the polished wood.
The boy nervously approached and the old man motioned with one hand toward a chair.
Footsteps told him that his protector, for that's how he thought of this man now, stood behind.
"So, uh, we brought you something." The boy awkwardly shoved the pack toward the old man who opened it to see the herbs, minerals, and finally the slain viper within.

"How nice," the old man remarked dryly. "My gatherer is found. Now I have only to replace my cook, housekeeper, and field hands."

Faolyn bit his lip. "Er…what do you mean?"

"They quit, of course! All of them! Taking the reward for your return with them! I was lucky to escape with only that loss, and it was no little, I assure! Who can blame them, bloodied and scared witless as they were?" The old man's voice rose in frustration.

"Were they hurt badly?" The boy felt a bit uneasy. He'd enjoyed their suffering more than he should have, but he didn't want them seriously harmed.

"Loose teeth, a broken nose, a separated shoulder, and all suffering from offended pride. Oh, they'll heal, but they'll not be back. And they'll make sure no one else wants to work here again! ...Attacked by a madman, is I believe how they put it." The old man glared above the boys head, and then dropped his eyes back to the boy.
"Of course, all of this could have been avoided if you'd stayed away from him, as I specifically instructed. How do you answer this?"

Faolyn bit his lip again and looked down. "I went to, uh, check on him this morning..."

The old man raised an eyebrow.

"The door unlocked..."

"Did it?"

The boy flushed, but otherwise ignored the sardonic laugh and continued.
"...He got up. So I, um, gave him...I gave him some of the worker's clothes that were in the wardrobe..."

The old man snorted and shook his head, and the boy shrugged nervously before becoming defensive.

"Well, we burned his. And I didn't think he should wear...you know..." The boy's eyes darted back over his shoulder, and his voice dropped.

Of course the old man knew he referred to the burial robe they'd been given to rest him in.
Indeed, what a sight that would have been had the workers so seen him tramping around the field!

"He went outside... I-I was worried he'd hurt himself, so..." Faolyn trailed off to a mumbled whisper. "So- I went with him..."

"Worried he'd hurt himself." The old man muttered incredulously and then looked at the man standing like a statue behind the chair.

Short hair, so well-groomed when they'd brought him to this place, was now matted and mussed, sticking up like honey-tipped quills in places.
The face was scruffy and deeply shadowed where it once was clean.

The worker's clothing was both too small and too large, pants legs coming only inches below the knee but gathered generously and held by a tightly cinched rope at the waist.
The shoulders of the tunic he wore were strained while the middle hung loosely.
And he was barefooted, for lack of fitting sandals to raid it seemed.
Altogether he was unkempt... And more, he was dangerous, the elder feared, this wounded stray... There was something that called to mind a wolf in this man's face.

"You endangered yourself and this boy in my care with your recklessness! Not to mention you've cost me a household of servants and severely damaged my livelihood! What do you say to this?"

The eyes...blue steel…did they widen just the slightest bit? It was hard to say. Silence and a glassy stare were all the answer that was returned.

The old man frowned. It was true he felt a sense of obligation to the care of this man.
And yet he was concerned both for the boy and for what doom this one could perhaps bring...

Too long he had clung to solitude and peace to be thrust into conflict, back into the den of vipers from which he'd made his way.
Too much there was to lose to risk it on such a one.

"Perhaps it is best I send for someone to return you whence you came. Perhaps-"

"No! It's not his fault!" Faolyn gasped and jumped from his chair only to fall back with a groan.

The old man rose with worry and came to see the boy's bloodied knee and swollen ankle. "Faolyn, how did this happen?"

"I was trying to get away from the workers." The boy mumbled, again self-conscious.

The old man looked at his young apprentice thoughtfully.
"And who did this?" He touched the boy's bruised face and felt him shudder slightly beneath the touch.

"I ran. I...upset them... I-I'm sorry."

Father Tarachande turned around and clasped his hands behind his back, pacing while he considered.
Long minutes passed in silence, shadows beginning to fall through the window as evening crept upon them.
"Did our friend here hurt you in any way?" He turned sharply to the boy. "I would hear the truth from you and nothing less!"

"I am telling the truth! He protected me! First from the viper and then-"

"From the viper? What-" And then the old man held up a hand, signaling an end to the discussion. Shaking his head, he rubbed his eyes.
"As apparently it now falls to me to prepare our evening meal, I will take yon viper and see if I recall how to make serpent stew."

The boy grimaced, this time not at all from physical pain.

"You take our friend, if he is so willing, back to his room. Find him some more appropriate clothing. Those were clearly meant for a man of much less stature and much wider girth.
And go wash up. We'll have to bed early tonight. Thanks in no small part to your adventure today, tomorrow will see you with many new responsibilities, my young friend.
Rest your ankle and prepare. ...At least it seems you'll have some help in your new labor."

The old man cast a dubious glance at their silent patient and disappeared into the kitchen.

"Here." The boy entered the sickroom with an armload of clothing and towels.
He had hurried, afraid the man would wander away while he was absent, and was surprised to see him instead sleeping soundly upon the bed as if he had never left it.
Oh well, he would bring him some stew later...although whether or not it would be edible was in doubt.

"Basch..."

Faolyn crept closer as he heard the man whisper softly through his sleep.

"Larsa...protect lord Larsa," the injured man mumbled fitfully and then drew a breath and fell into deeper sleep.

The boy's face clouded, and acute sadness suddenly gripped him.
Of course. The man had never truly been awake, and it had been lord Larsa he was protecting.
A soldier's duty. Nothing more.

The boy sat the pile of clothing on the chair beside the bed and left the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

When the old man finished the serpent stew he was surprised to find both the patient and the boy asleep in their respective rooms.
He pulled a soft cover over Faolyn's curled body, refilled the goblet of healant-laced wine beside their patient's bed, locked all of the outer doors-keeping the key secure on his person, and took his own bowl of stew to his quarters.
"Yes," he thought as he sat down at his desk and gingerly swallowed a spoonful, "I will miss Cook the most."

"I am sorry to leave you behind..."

Why did those words drive rest from his nights. Why did they echo in his waking thoughts.
Why now this strange discontentment when he'd always carried steadfastly on, done what he believed he must, as still now he must do.

Basch polished the helm carefully. His hand slowed as in the reflected gleam he saw a face both his and not his own.

The image blurred and he saw the two, young and careless in their short-lived security.
Saw them again, separated less by the bars between them than by choices and wounded circumstances and aged less by time than by sorrow.

But ragged and worn as it had been, how was it that he had not seen that the bond had not fully torn until-

The image changed, and the face he saw was battered, lips shuddering through labored breathing, eyes clouded with grief-eyes and searching his for reassurance.

Suddenly with piercing sharpness Basch knew the answer to why this time it was different.

At last he was truly alone.