The Missing Worlds - Epilogue
Rating: PG-13

Summary: I met a traveler in a distant land...

The wind blew from west to east, pushing the heavy billowing clouds of smoke and ash before it. To the east, far on the distant shores of the wine-dark sea, lay the sprawling empires of Xerxes and the even more mysterious lands beyond. To the east lay war and fire, cities and politics and man preying endlessly on man. To the west lay the great expanses of wilderness, mountains and pristine forests inhabited only by beasts and barbarian tribes.

He set his face to the wind, and walked.

It was clear to him now - should have been obvious from the start, really - that the travelers were not who they'd claimed to be. They were no citizens of Xerxes, the tall blond had been no brother of any man in this world. He ought to have known that right away - too many years had passed for any brother of Yuisha's to still look so young - but his easy knowledge of things no man ought to have known had lulled his suspicions. And stirred his hope.

Who - or what - had they been, truly? Sorcerers, trickster spirits, gods in mortal guise come to claim back their treasure? Whatever they were, he didn't know and didn't want to know. The secret treasure of Akros - his great oath, his long burden - was out of his hands forever.

It had taken three days for him to leave the temple. What drove him out in the end was not hunger - over the years he had grown accustomed to ignoring pangs of near-starvation, since he couldn't truly be harmed by them - but cold. It was still winter and the chill had settled into the bones of the underground temple, cold drafts wending their way through the stone labyrinth walls.

There was nothing left in the temple that he could use for a cloak, so on the third day as the temperatures began to drop he crept out of the temple's lower entrances into the ruined town. Very little had changed since the last time he had ventured out of the temple, except that the stones were even more broken-down by time; even the weeds straggling up between the paving-stones slept with the winter season, leaving a landscape utterly devoid of life.

Most of the contents of the houses had also withered away, and he was forced to search an increasing distance from the center of the town to find the less-ruined buildings which had withstood the elements. In one small but sturdy house in the lowest terrace he found a cache of sturdy men's clothing, trousers and chiton with a heavy wool clook on the outside. He happened to glance up as he fastened the cloak across his breast, and realized he was but steps away from the town's outer limit.

At that point, it seemed stupid to do anything but keep going.

No one saw him leaving Akros, or paid him more than a glance when he joined the road that snaked along the base of the mountains. No one cried out or raised a fuss when he stopped at a waystation a day's march north to purchase some food and traveling gear. He had some money, taken from the purses of the fallen adventurers who had sought to slay him - not much, since rich men tended not to risk their lives seeking cursed treasures in the first place, but he had copper enough. A sword that had outlived its former owner helped ensure that no one thought it worth the effort to relieve him of it.

No one took any notice of him at all, just another weathered old traveler making one last pilgrimage in the winter of his life.

Winter in more than one way. The mysterious traveler had restored his human body to him, but nothing could restore his lost youth. His hair, where he had drawn it over his shoulder and cut it with a sword before tying it back with a thong, was riddled with frosted grey. His hands were withered and sunken with age, but they still grip the hilt of his sword with strength enough, so what did it matter what they look like? His eyes were clouded and blurred, but so what? He could still see the sun and the sky and the road, could tell a rock from a tree or a building, could see the movement of a beast or a man heading his way; how important was it really to be able to read the fine detail on signs or pick out individual features of people's faces?

He kept walking.

As he traveled away from the tame lands surrounding the city-states and further into the wild lands, the towns became fewer, smaller. Where before he could have passed half a dozen little towns in a day, now noon to night could pass without him crossing even one. The roads were still maintained, though, by the legions that patrolled them, and every now and then he passed a lesche set back in the field by the road, waiting to shelter weary travelers at night.

Out here in the wilds, where wolves and bears were a danger, the open sides of the lesche were built up with stout timbers along the bottom halves; the structure was almost like a proper house, but that the walls were wood instead of stone. Still, it was a roof over his head for the night and that was enough.

The sun had been glaring in his eyes as it set, so it took his vision a moment to adjust when he came in to the darkness of the lesche, and even then he could make out only mostly blurred blobs and shadows. Still, he sensed the presence of the other man even without seeing him, and so it was no surprise to him when a pale silhouette stirred from the corner of the lesche and quickly stood up when he entered. "Oh - I'm sorry," the stranger said. "I didn't realize - I didn't realize anyone lived here."

That earned the stranger an odd look; his vision was too dim and cloudy to make out more than a vague outline, a tall figure wrapped in a gray traveling cloak. The voice was definitely male, not female - good, there need be no worry about propriety of sharing a roof then. "No one does," he said, setting aside his traveling pack and cloak as he entered the lesche, as was proper. He ought to have set aside his weapon as well, strictly speaking, but he didn't care that much about propriety as to leave himself unarmed in the company of strangers.

"This isn't your house, then?" the stranger asked, sounding anxious. He must be a stranger, perhaps a barbarian from the lands further west, if he did not know the most basic of civilized customs. Still, if he was planning to spend his last days among such barbarians, he would have to make at least an effort to get along with them.

"It isn't anybody's," he replied, settling himself at one of the benches. "But you are welcome to share this shelter with me tonight, and to break bread at my table." Formalities taken care of, he reached into his pack for his own waybread and wineskin, fumbling a little bit in the shrouded darkness that his eyes could not easily penetrate.

Light steps at his shoulder, and the gray-cloaked stranger sat on the bench beside him; this close he caught a glimpse of pale skin on his face and hands, although he kept the hood drawn over his head. "May I pour for you then, grandfather?" the stranger said politely enough.

"I'm not your grandfather," he retorted. "But you can if you like." He handed over his wine gladly enough; he didn't really want to waste it by spilling it all over the table.

Unfortunately, once the wine had been poured, the stranger apparently took this for an open invitation to begin talking his ear off. "So, how are you doing?" he said. "I'm doing very well. It's a nice day, isn't it? I certainly think it is! It was cloudy this morning, but I think it's going to clear up overnight. What do you think?"

It was amazing, he thought, how much some people could talk without saying anything at all.

"What a lovely time to be traveling," the garralous stranger said, completely disregarding his lack of reply. "Are you also traveling, good sir? How do you find the roads? The roads are nice, but it's kind of a shame that everything is so barren and dead right now. Don't you think so?"

"It's winter," he couldn't help but point out, through a mouthful of bread and crumbled cheese.

The stranger nodded thoughtfully, as though he'd said something profound. "It is, isn't it? I guess you're right. That's too bad. Still, the best part of winter is that you can look forward to spring. I'm certainly looking forward to spring. Aren't you?"

At this point he was irritated enough to set down his meal and turn to face his annoyance head-on. "Are you actually talking to me, or just to yourself?" he demanded.

The stranger seemed taken aback, and it was a long moment before he answered, somewhat hesitantly, "... I'm talking to you."

" 'Cos at the rate you've been talking, there hasn't been room for me to get a word in," he pointed out. "Seems like you have more interest in the sound of your own voice than in anything I have to say."

"...No... no, that's - that's not true," the stranger objected, and a hint of anxiety leaked through his formerly sunny facade. "I want to hear what you have to say. Please."

He snorted. "What I have to say about what?"

"Anything."

The fervent, unhesitating reply took him aback, and he found himself oddly moved to pity. "Well..." he said, trying to gather up some words to share. He'd spent so long with no one to talk to at all, he really didn't remember the art of meaningless small talk any more. All he could find within himself to say were truths.

"I guess the weather doesn't really bother me," he said at last. "Never has. The way I see it, winter and summer, rain and sun, it's all part of the way the world moves. You can't shut yourself out of it without cutting yourself off from the world, and I'm done with that. I don't have so many seasons left in me that I can get fussed about liking one more than another." Having said his piece, he bit back into his waybread.

"So you are traveling... just to see the world, then?" his companion said slowly.

He shrugged. "I guess you could say that. See the world, meet new people."

"Do you like meeting new people?" the other man said hopefully.

That surprised an actual chuckle from him "Actually I can't stand most of 'em," he said with a snort. "But that isn't what's important, is it? It's not really about whether I like them or not."

He took another bite and chewed thoughtfully. "People are like the seasons; you can't change them just by complaining about it," he said. "You just have to take them as they come, the good and the bad. There's no other choice except to cut yourself off from the world, and I've had enough of being alone."

"Yes," the man said softly, almost inaudibly - as though he were talking to himself. "More than enough."

No question about it, this stranger was - well, strange. He squinted hard at the pale silhouette, as though he could penetrate that gray cloak just with the force of his stare. "So, how about you?" he prompted. "What are you on the road looking for?"

Taken aback, the stranger flailed around off-balance for a reply. "Well... uhm... uh... I thought I would travel to see... see exciting places," he stammered. "And... maybe I'll meet some family or, or some friends that I used to know or... I don't know... visit the different shrines I guess, maybe look at beautiful art..."

He rolled his eyes at the obviously false, weak excuses. "Well, you'd better figure it out fast, son," he told him firmly. "Trust me, you don't want to waste your time when you're young, wandering aimlessly around and waiting for a purpose to find you." He grimaced, thinking of all the years he'd lost trying to serve someone else's purpose. "That's a good way to waste years of your time. And while you're young now and you might think you'll live forever, you're wrong."

For a long moment his companion sat still on the bench, as though stuck in a trance, before he stirred. "...Oh, where are my manners?" he exclaimed. "Here I've been drinking your wine, but I haven't offered anything in return. I've been a terrible host. Won't you share in my meal, good sir?" He reached down to pluck his own luggage from somewhere - his pale hands moved too fast to quite make out from where - and set a package on the coarse wooden table to unwrap. "I don't have much, but I would be glad to give you this apple."

He held out his hands, cupped together in the last light of the fading sun, and the dying light caught as though afire on a rich golden globe held between his hands. It shone as though its skin were metal, the light clear enough to pierce even through the dark veil over his eyes.

For a moment he hesitated, and then he shrugged. "Sure, why not?" he said aloud, reaching out one wrinkled hand for the apple. "I won't turn down free food."

"It's very delicious," his companion said, and there was a strange note in his voice that hadn't been there before. "And healthy, too. It'll do you a world of good. Oh yes."

Something in his voice lent a certain amount of misgiving, but he ignored it. Surely no one would go to the trouble of poisoning an old vagabond just to steal a handful of copper denari and half a loaf of bread.

And besides - his life was already nearly at its end. What did he have to lose?

The pale stranger leaned forward on the bench, his slim hands knotted anxiously together, as the old warrior took his first bite.

~end (for real.)