The Sorcerer and the Witch-King's Heir

Leo met Michael outside the city, and they walked together through the farming villages. In the distance, the forest loomed. There was an inn where the city road met the travelers road, but they would have to camp after that. Breckenridge wasn't far, about three days walking in good weather, and the weather was beautiful -- one of those lazy fall days that makes winter seem like a distant dream -- and so they reached the inn before nightfall. They ordered a room, with supper to be brought up. Leo shed his too-warm cloak, and began the tedious process of disarming. Michael watched in amusement. "Who are you, really?" he asked. Leo paused in his war with the leather knots and glared at him. "You're asking the man you hired as a bodyguard why he's heavily armed?" "No, not at all. It's just...when I met you, you jumped like a startled rabbit. You were wearing an apron, for the gods sake. And now you look...dangerous. So I'm just wondering, which one is the real you?" Leo sighed. He dropped his satchel and bandolier, and started on the buckles to his sword belt. "I don't know," he said honestly. "I'm whoever I need to be, these days. I started doing mercenary works about seven or eight years ago. A friend needed a favor, a trusted friend," he added with a glare, "and then mentioned me to a friend of theirs, and word sort of got around that if you needed defense for a caravan there was a guy who could do the work of a company for the price of a single guard and wouldn't try to stick you up for more halfway there. I don't take a lot of jobs, don't trust most of the people who come looking. Three or four a year, I would guess. The rest of the time, well, I run the shop. I like the shop. It's like...well, it's my home. Possibly my only home. I don't remember if I had one before. And it's not safe, any kind of magic, even the simple finding charm I gave you, carries a risk if you sell it to the wrong person. But when it's the right person, and you're able to help them when no one else can...that makes it worth it. And most of it isn't magic. Most of it is tea and medicine and helping someone's granny breath or offering some pain relief for a kid with a broken leg." He dropped the sword onto the bed and sat down to remove his boots. He didn't want to look at Michael. It was more than he'd told anyone about himself ever, and more words than he usually spoke in a week. But it was nice to finally say it aloud; it made him feel more real. "How old are you?" Michael asked, "if that's not too impudent a question." Leo looked up, startled by the question. "I'm twenty-five," Michael said, "If that helps. Born in the year of jubilee. My mother said it was a good omen. I'm the same age as the republic, born into a free world." He grinned, wild and free. Leo pulled his daggers free, and slipped them under his pillow. He kicked his boots under the bed, and folded his legs up under him while he debated the wild, reckless urge to be honest. Michael was the heir to the Witch-Throne. Who could he possibly tell Leo's secrets to without endangering himself? But if he wasn't afraid of being turned in, why was this so hard? "I don't know," he answered finally. "I think I must be old. Very old, even. But I don't remember. After the war..." He closed his eyes and tried to focus on what he usually put considerable effort into forgetting. The pain and the chanting and the screaming and the sensation of his soul being ripped out of his body. Cold nights huddled in doorways. Begging. Children throwing stones; beatings. An angry city watchman prodding him with his sword. A memory of dark, horrifying cold water--had he fallen into the river? And then...Marsha. "Marsha," he said finally. "The woman who gave you my name. She found me sleeping in her garden one day, and hired me on as a laborer. She needed a good, strong man to help beat the hides, and didn't care much if I had my wits about me or not. I slept in a shed outside the tannery, and she fed me. Eventually, well, I got better. She helped me get the shop. Put up her own tannery as collateral when the old herbalist wanted to sell." He took a deep breath. "I owe her my life." "Was it trauma?" Michael asked. "That made you lose your memories? Did something happen to you as a kid?" Leo laughed, a mad, deranged sound, that went on too long before turning into a whimpering sob. He pulled his knees up to his chest and pressed his face into them. Suddenly Michael was on the bed next to him, pulling him into a hug that was much stronger than his scrawny frame had led him to expect. "Shhh," he said into his hair. "It's over now. You're safe now. Just breath." He smelled like cinnamon and orange. He was warm and strong. Leo leaned into him and let himself believe, just for a moment, that he was safe. ** They slept in separate beds that night. Leo didn't take lovers--he couldn't risk anyone seeing what he was hiding under his clothes. Even though Michael had already guessed, he wasn't ready to go quite that far. Besides, sleeping with clients seemed like a bad business practice. Was Michael a client? He hadn't exactly discussed payment before agreeing to go on this mad quest. He supposed he was doing it for the greater good of the realm. They had paid the innkeeper for a week of provisions, and now he had a heavy pack of bread and dried meat to carry, as well as his weapons and his too-warm cloak. Michael, thankfully, didn't ask any more personal question. He talked instead, about the weather, about the various types of sheep they passed, about the latest scandal in his village (the baker's wife was seen engaging in indecent behavior with the miller), about the pranks he got up to as a school child, about his love for ducks and his undying hatred for geese, about his various failed apprenticeships, (baker, miller, blacksmith, in that order), about the various antics of girls who were trying to get his attention before he realized he didn't like girls. "Do you like girls, Leo?" he asked with forced casualness. Leo shrugged. "Not like that." Maybe in a past life he had. He wouldn't know. Could your sexual preferences change when you lost your memory? Maybe everything could change, like your taste for food. Maybe he used to hate cheese and loved pears. Were those things part of who you were, like your height, or something you learned from the people around you, like language? Michael's smile at his answer rivaled the noonday sun. Leo couldn't look directly at it. "Me either," Michael said. "There was this boy though...but he did like girls, so it was hopelessly. I followed him around like a puppy for months before he got engaged." He sighed dramatically. "My mother thought I was hopeless. Even when I explained to her, she thought I should still get married so that I could have children. I'm her only child, you understand. She wanted grandchildren. Wanted the family to continue. I guess, it doesn't matter now." The smile went out like a thunderstorm coming in. Without thinking, Leo reached out and touched his shoulder. He let the moment linger, until Michael took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and smiled again. "For mother," he said, raising his fist in a salute. "Let's go save the world." "For mother," Leo agreed, with a smile of his own. "Look!" Michael shrieked suddenly, and Leo was so alarmed that he reached for his sword before he realized what his companion was pointing at. "A duck pond!" Michael shouted. "We can eat our lunch there!" He ran towards it. Leo, feeling like a very old man indeed, whatever his memories might indicate otherwise, followed after him.