“Why are you crying, son?”

Son. I’d traveled over ten thousand miles to hear that word. But looking down at him in that wheelchair, I could tell it was different. The word had no history to it. It didn’t echo with the sound of years under the forge, working together, nor did it echo with the memory of a father falling asleep to his son’s first songs.

No. Father looked at me like a man he’d stumbled into in the park, crying and alone. I could imagine what he would do then—reach out. Father would sit, listen, and offer that crying man a drink. He was kind. He was the same man I left behind.

There was no need for me to cry.

So I looked at him, and I forced my face into a smile. It was strained and the moisture still hung against my cheek, but I would not cry. Not in front of father. I tried to laugh. The sound came out like a sob, but I laughed, and I ran my sleeve across my face. The tears kept flowing even as I smiled.

“I’m crying for a stupid reason,” I said, wiping my face with both hands. “Don’t mind it, father.”

He tilted his head to the side, “Father?”

I met his eyes as needles poked at my heart. I shook my head, “Sorry. I mistook you for someone else. You couldn’t be him—my father was younger.”

Lies.

“You just reminded me of him, is all.”

Father stared at me for a long moment, seemingly in thought. Then he smiled and gestured to the ground beside his wheelchair. I sat on the grass. Soft and cool. Beside me, father turned his eyes back towards the rowan in front of us.

“What’s your name, son?”

Rowan.

“Ashran.”

“Would you like a drink, Ashran?”

I was Rowan. Not Ashran.

“Please.”

Father placed his hands over the wheels of his chair and pushed it forward, over to a stump beside the rowan. He plucked the kettle from it, still steaming, and poured me a cup of schaa. He returned to me. Handed me the cup. I brought it to my lips with shaky hands, taking a small, measured sip.

“You’re crying again,” father said, smiling kindly. “Is an old man’s tea so bad?”

I shook my head, “No. It’s just…” I trailed off and laughed again. A low, quiet thing. Shaky and frail. I stared down into the tea and felt the smile on my face tremble, “I was looking for someone today. Or something. I don’t know. All I know is that I didn’t find what I wanted to find.”

Father chuckled, “Perhaps a stranger’s garden isn’t the best place to search.”

“That’s true. But this was the only place I could go.”

“Why do you say so?”

“I thought my home would still be here.”

He nodded, “I’m sorry. My wife and I have owned this land for nineteen years. Your parents—whoever owned it—they likely moved away long ago. Would you like me to ask where the previous owners are?”

Nineteen years. They’d owned this house for longer than I’d been alive. And they’d raised a second son in it during that time. The composure I forced on my face felt so frail, after realizing that. I gripped my cup so tight that I thought it would shatter. But my hands felt weak. There was no strength in them as I released a hollow laugh.

“No, no need. I’m… done. Done searching,” I said. “This was my last stop.”

Father nodded, and we fell into silence. I drank from my cup. He drank from his. Then, he turned his eyes to me, searching. Looking for something.

“What counts as home to you, Ashran?”

It took a moment for me to answer. I gazed up at the swaying branches overhead. Suncatcher leaves, blue as the summer sky.

“…I suppose home would be a place where I can spend time with people I care about. Where I can wake up and have breakfast and talk to them about meaningless things. Like tea. Or what words sound the most interesting.”

“Like taxation?”

“How did you know?”

Father grinned and shrugged, looking satisfied. “That was an old man’s gut talking,” he said. “When a man grows old, sometimes he just knows things. Sometimes it’s the right words to say. Sometimes it’s when he knows he needs to apologize for something he did. And other times, it’s knowing when a young lad needs to hear an old man preach.”

He looked at me, tilting his head.

“Can I offer you some advice, Ashran?”

I looked down at my cup, at the golden schaa, reflecting a face that wasn’t mine.

I nodded, and father looked up, up at the rowan.

“Stop looking for your old home, son. Go to the one you already have. The one with breakfast and dinner and the people you can talk about meaningless things with.”

“…How do you know I have one to turn to?”

Father smiled and tapped a stony finger against his temple.

“Sometimes, a man just knows.”

I looked down at my tea for a long moment. I wasn’t crying anymore. And my heart ached, but it wasn’t threatening to shatter. I was calm. I didn’t know when, but talking to father had brought me out of the deep hopelessness I felt just minutes ago. I downed the rest of my schaa in quick, noisy gulps. It was hot. It scorched my throat.

But that was okay. I stood with a long breath, and my legs shook, but I stood. My heart hurt so very much, but I could still stand.

Because the sadness I felt was a kind and gentle thing. It felt as vast as the sea, but no waves crashed against my heart. The surface of it was still, like a mirror, gazing up at me and offering for me to explore its depths at my own pace. My own time.

I supposed it was only fitting, that the kind of sadness father left me with was one that felt the way it did. I gave the man of my childhood a small smile.

“Can I come back here for tea sometime, Rugsh?”

He blinked, “Of course, but… how did you know my name?”

I tapped a not-as-stony finger against my temple, “Sometimes, a man just knows.”

Father blinked and opened his mouth to reply, when voice came from the house, interrupting us. Kerban’s. Father turned his head towards home as my brother’s voice echoed out from the kitchen. “Hey, dad!? Where did you leave the kettle?”

“It’s with me!” father replied, and I smiled a small smile and took one step back. My foot sunk into shadow—

And by the time Rugsh turned to speak to me again, I was already gone.

Kenett’s bar was active, even late into the night. The Tippy Tap was filled with the usual sort—workers relaxing after evening shifts, gossiping wives hogging the corner seats, and the stray drunkards looking for another mug of ale. They made for the kind of sight he liked to observe, standing in front of his collection of wine bottles, dragging his cloth in circles over an already gleaming countertop.

The portly amarid made the rounds over the bar with his waiter, refilling drinks and having short chats with the regulars. A bit of complaints about work here, some marriage gossip there, and Kenett had himself a happy customer and a good reputation. That was what secured him his regulars.

Which were all of the people in the bar. Except for one.

Kenett glanced at the man in question, sitting by the wall. He was pale. Perhaps the palest person Kenett had ever seen. He’d heard of the man’s kind, of course. Snowskins. Or albinos, as the humans called them. Some people would have called the man creepy. Or perhaps a ruder customer would have called him cursed—touched by the Winter Court, left the color of snow and doomed to the eternal frost. Kenett knew better. No, curses were superstition, and the Winter Court were just a children’s tale. The Fae of the long frost were long gone.

Only few of their living Ancestors remained, now. And none were of the winter.

So the pale man sitting in his inn was fine, if only a bit unfortunate. Between the tattered state of his clothes and the miserable look he had on his face, Kenett was almost convinced the man wouldn’t be able to pay for his drink. Even the beautiful lute he had in his arms was scratched up! One judgmental man might even be inclined to think that it was stolen. But Kenett was never one to go by looks, so he stepped forward to refill the man’s drink anyway.

He set a plate of appetizers down in front of the customer and smiled, “Cold night out, isn’t it? The rains always bring out the worst of Felzan in this time. Would be that this neck of the woods is cool, but not freezing. Not like tonight.”

The pale man nodded absently, “It was a long way here. Cold, wet. Unpleasant.”

“Mhmm. I’m sure a bard like you would have found the journey perilous. Did you come from the north?”

“…West.”

Kenett blinked. West? Where the blight was? How very dangerous. Especially if the man had traveled in from beyond the Heartlands. Why, the man was lucky to be alive! Leaning forward, Kenett took in the traveler in front of him. He looked tired. And his clothes were stained darker in some parts. Mud? Blood?

Maybe this stranger had seen fighting on the road.

“Did you see them?” Kenett asked, wetting his lips. “The Shissavi in the west, fighting the blight. I heard the first prince was sent to fight with them months ago. There has been no definite news since. Don’t tell me the front has fallen to the Crimson Tide?”

“Saer Halcyn is doing fine,” the stranger said, shaking his head. “The army stationed in the west recently developed a new weapon to fight the blight. News should arrive here soon.”

Kenett let loose a sigh of relief.

“Thank the Ancestors for that, stranger. I was starting to get worried! If the blight reached us here in Felzan, I wouldn’t know what to do.”

“Run.”

“Pardon?”

The man turned his eyes to Kenett; a striking silver, like starlight molded into a ring that fit perfectly inside the man’s dark eye sockets, “If the blight reaches here, you’d probably have to run. If that new weapon can’t destroy the crimson, I don’t think anything would be able to.”

Kenett shook his head, laying hand on the man’s shoulder. “Let’s not be pessimistic, friend. Have faith in the prince! Saer Halcyn always finds a way, as they say.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it, knowing him.”

“Indeed,” Kenett grinned. “What’s your name, friend?”

“Ashran.”

“Ah—adept. In Old Caeri, too. A good name. You should thank your parents for granting you such a blessed gift, young Ashran. Your name brings good fortune!”

The customer turned bitter at his words, the atmosphere around both of them suddenly turning somber. “I would thank one of them for a lot of things,” Ashran said, “but neither of them remember me. Not even a bit. Sucks, right?”

Kenett nodded in understanding. Brain rot, it was. A problem of old age, degrading memory and a waning in one’s ability to think. It was a tragic thing.

“You have my well wishes, Ashran. And a free drink,” he said, rapping his knuckles on the man’s table. “This refill’s on the house.”

The stranger nodded his thanks, and Kenett pointed to his lute.

“Do you play, friend?”

“A bit.”

“Know any popular songs? Originals?”

Ashran stared down at his lute for a moment, an unreadable look coming over his face. “Plenty of both,” he said, and Kenett nodded.

The barkeep motioned to the mug in front of them both. “Then, if it wouldn’t trouble you too much, I feel like this bar needs something fresh every now and then. Something new. A wandering bard like yourself is exactly what it needs. What do you say? Will you play a night for the Tippy Tap? I’ll consider any orders worth upwards of three Caeri moons free, if you agree.”

The pale man thought for a moment, before nodding. Ashran stood from the table and Kenett blinked as he rose. Rose up to seven feet. Far taller than chubby Kenett, who wasn’t even halfway between five and six. The man peered down at him, “Where do you want me to play?”

Kenett blinked, “R-Right in the middle, please. There’s some space cleared between the tables for bards like yourself. Sir.”

“Thank you.”

Ashran walked to the middle and clamor of the tavern quieted down. Eyes moved to the bard standing in the center, covered in tattered cloths and a scratched up lute. It was like a sight straight from the stories—a man in a dark cloak, stepping over the creaky floors without a sound. It was the sight of a bard beyond the city.

One whose music had something to say.

A regular leaned away from his table to whisper at Kenett, throwing glances at the giant standing among them. “Who’s he? Some big shot bard from the south?” the regular asked, and Kenett shrugged.

“Didn’t give me a name I recognized, so likely not. But he does have the look about him, doesn’t he?”

“Hah! It’s the height, I reckon. Let’s hope he don’t play like shit.”

Kenett nodded, pouring the man in front of him a drink as Ashran’s fingers moved to his strings. All eyes were on him, now. Staring. Waiting for the music to start. Ashran drew a breath, closed his eyes…

And then the man played, and everything fell away. The moment the song started, there was nothing else. Only the music. And only the man in the center, the sounds emerging from his lute unlike anything Kenett had ever experienced. Every note was like a different experience. A scent. A touch. A long, hollow quiet after a distant journey, each footstep played out in song. The innkeeper stood there, listening to music that spoke more than words.

Entranced. Caught in the spell.

But then that spell was over, all too soon. Kenett blinked and fell out of his daze. He touched his face, his cheek, and stared at his wet fingertips.

“Huh,” he said, his voice soft.

He didn’t know music could feel quite so heavy until now.