Withro

Berrodin shook his head. "Forgive me. I tend to ramble. Please, go ahead. I still have a bit of work to do, so I'll wait for you outside."

Cyrus nodded, and waited for the old man to leave before downing three slivers of jerky, and downing his water. When he finished, he made his way to the wash bin, and splashed a bit of cold water on his face. 

Taking a rag from the side, he wiped down as well as he could, scrubbing at the spots he felt the most dirt. Once he was satisfied, he made his way back through the living room, and down the corridor on its left. 

The floorboards groaned as he opened the last door, and stepped inside. Sunlight streamed through a shuttered window, and the curtains waved in the breeze. A small straw cot sat in the center, beside a maple nightstand, and a series of shelves, adorned by a variety of knickknacks. 

Cyrus picked up thin oval rock, made from three different types of stone. A string was threaded through a small hole in the top, and knotted to form a necklace. 

'Interesting,' Cyrus thought. He set the stone back down, and turned around. A blurry mirror reflected his appearance from the corner, and a massive wardrobe towered beside it. 

With a tug on the two small knobs, the doors popped open, revealing a shelf of tunics, trousers, and wool socks. Overhead, a few coats and jackets hung from the hooks, while two sets of boots were pushed off to the side. 

Cyrus rummaged through the clothes, and grabbed what he thought would fit. As he stripped out of his worn tunic, he glanced at himself in the mirror. His face was taut, and eyes sunken, while his ribs showed through his stomach. 

'At least I won't look like this much longer,' Cyrus thought. He dressed quickly, then after a bit of hesitation, exchanged his shredded boots as well. 'There. That's better.'

With that, Cyrus left the house, and returned to the hut, where Berrodin toiled away at his forge. He paused as Cyrus approached, and looked him over.

"I see the clothes fit you well. I'm glad, I was worried they might be a bit short on you," Berrodin said. He peered over the anvil, and nodded. "Good. You took the boots as well. How do they fit?"

Cyrus wriggled his toes. "They're a smidge long, but a definite improvement over the ones I was wearing."

"Hmm. Well, we can always purchase you new ones once we reach Galeden," Berrodin said. He hoisted his hammer into the air, and motioned towards a crate in the corner. "Why don't you take a seat for now. I don't really need your help just yet, but I will soon."

"Just say the word," Cyrus said. He took the spot on the crate, and watched as Berrodin worked a molten slab of iron into a perfect horseshoe. 

He moved with practiced ease, each swing fluid, and without excess. When he finished, he dunked the glowing metal into a bucket of water. A cloud of steam rose with a hiss, and the water bubbled from the radiating heat.

As Berrodin retrieved the horseshoe, he flipped it over, and examined the curve and length. With a nod, he tossed into a box of similar shaped ones, and grabbed a new sheet of metal. Like this, the next few days passed quickly, allowing Cyrus to gain the rest he needed.

As the week neared its end, Cyrus grew accustomed to the pace of his new life, and in turn lent his hand in aiding Berrodin. His job was to load the finished wares into the back of the wagon, and also tend to the old donkey, which lived in the stables. 

"Morning, Starvhost," Cyrus said, opening the stable doors. 

A wide eyed donkey stuck its head over the stall door, and nickered. Cyrus patted its grey mane, before grabbing a bucket and filling it with oats. Within seconds of sticking it over the door, the donkey slammed its head into the oats.

"Easy there," Cyrus said. He pulled the bucket, donkey included, over to a hook, and set it down, then yanked back his arm. "Gods above, you're a stubborn beast."

Cyrus wiped off his hands, and stepped outside. Overhead, the trees swayed and shook, brought to life by a passing gust. Higher up, grey clouds enveloped the sky, blocking the light of the sun.

"Looks like it's going to storm tonight," Cyrus said. He made his way to the forge, where Berrodin worked away at the final items. "Are you sure it'll be safe to travel in this weather?"

The old man set down his hammer, and glanced outside. "It should be fine. We'll be stopping in the village of Withro tonight anyway. I know the tavern owner there quite well. I'm certain he'll be able to provide us with a room."

Cyrus furrowed his brow. "Say, do you think anyone there will know me?"

Berrodin frowned. "I suppose it's possible, but I doubt it. It's a small village, separated from most of the world. The only visitors they get are trading merchants, and the occasional visitor from Galeden."

"I see. I thought as much," Cyrus said. 

Berrodin squeezed his shoulder. "Don't worry so much. I'm certain you'll remember who you are sooner or later. For now, why don't you help me load these crates into the wagon."

Cyrus nodded, and grabbed a crate of hinges, before following Berrodin out of the hut. On the way to the wagon, he tripped over a loose rock, and stumbled forward. Catching himself at the last moment, he managed to keep the crate from spilling, but one of the hinges still fell.

"Are you alright?' Berrodin asked, glancing over his shoulder. 

"Yes, I'm fine. I just tripped over a rock," Cyrus said. He set his crate to the side, and reached for the hinge. 

Suddenly, a breeze swept through the clearing like a wave, stirring the grass. As it did, a few loose strands grazed his fingers, and tickled his skin. Cyrus paused as a wave of warmth washed over him. Strangely enough, it felt pleasant and was soon accompanied by an odd whispering. It reminded him of a lush forest, stirring in the summer wind.

The sensation drew him in, and he strained his ears in an attempt to hear better. Though uncertain, the rustling leaves sounded close to words, as though the plants were speaking to him.

'What? What are you trying to tell me?' Cyrus leaned forward as the world grew blurry. He stared, transfixed, at the emerald grass, swaying in front of him. 

"-rus? Cyrus? Are you alright?"

Cyrus snapped out of his daze and pulled back his hand. Berrodin watched him from the wagon, his brow furrowed. 

"What? Yes. Yes, I'm fine. I just got lost in thought, that's all." Cyrus said. He grabbed the hinge, and tossed it back in the crate, before loading it into the back of the wagon. 

Berrodin slowly nodded. "Very well. As long as you didn't hurt yourself."

The old man returned to his forge, and Cyrus leaned against one of the wheels. His bright green eyes shifted back and forth as he studied the grass.

'That's strange. My magic has never acted on its own before.'

…

Four hours later, Berrodin finished forging the remainder of his wares, and the rest of the crates were fitted into the back of his wagon. After fastening them down with ropes, Cyrus plopped down on the back, and wiped the sweat from his neck and brow. 

"Thank you," Berrodin said, tossing Cyrus a waterskin. "With that out of the way, it looks as though we 'll be able to make it to the village before lunch."

"Do you intend to leave now?" Cyrus asked. He uncapped the waterskin, and took a sip. The cool liquid washed through him like a waterfall, and he wiped the excess from his lips. "How far is it?"

"No more than an hour's ride," Berrodin said. He patted the grey donkey harnessed to the wagon. "Quicker if Starvhost here keeps a steady pace."

Cyrus arched his brow. "Really? How much quicker?"

Berrodin grinned. "Maybe by a minute or so. He's not as young as he used to be."

"I doubt you are either," Cyrus said.

"You may be right about that," Berrodin said. He climbed into his seat, and grabbed the reins. "Do you need to grab anything from inside?"

"No, all my belongings are on me," Cyrus said, climbing over the crates. He wedged himself against the back, and settled into a small space just big enough to stretch his legs. Once situated, Berrodin flicked the reins, and the wagon lurched forward. As the wheels creaked to life, Cyrus leaned against the wood and gazed at the cover of branches overhead. 

They swayed and swished as if speaking to one another, while the occasional pine cone dropped through the needles. Light blue and orange flowers grew along the mossy trails between the trees, while black and brown squirrels scampered across the ground, stopping here and there to chitter amongst themselves. 

Cyrus studied the forest with a keen gaze, his emerald eyes flickering with curiosity. The brimming life reminded him of the whispers he heard earlier, and he found himself drawn in, once again searching for something more.

Lost in thought, Cyrus didn't realize how much time had passed until the wagon broke free of the trees and entered a vast valley dotted with round hills cloaked in yellow grass. Specks of white washed over a distant knoll as a herd of sheep flocked away from a dog. 

Cyrus shifted his gaze to the village of Withro, which rested in the center. Its cobblestone houses were topped by thatched roofs and wooden eaves, while short fences lined the sides and backs. A flash of pink drew his attention to the left, where a pig stuck its nose between the beams, and stared at him. Behind it, several chickens clucked, and pecked at the dirt. 

A second, larger fence stretched around the outskirts of the village, forming a pasture for the cows and horses. Cyrus watched as a group of boys climbed over the fence, and darted between the grazing cattle. A young boy with light brown hair ran at the front, dodging the others, and ducking out of their grasps.

Their game led them to the edge of a river, where they stripped their tunics, and launched into the water. Shouts of glee and laughter filled the air, louder than the pleas of nearby farmers, warning them to be careful. 

"Those boys must run on a furnace. The water flows from the snow caps, and is freezing," Berrodin said. Shaking his head, the old man guided the wagon to the village center and stopped beside a wooden stall lined with shelves and hooks. A bit of dirt coated the top, while dry leaves collected around the base and sides.

"I'm going to sell what I can while we're here," Berrodin said. He twisted in his seat. "Would you mind taking Starvhost to the stables while I clean up? You'll find them near the east end of the village."

"I can do that." Cyrus unharnessed the donkey, and led it through the village. Along the way, people stopped to watch him, and muttered amongst themselves. He lowered his head to avoid eye contact, and quickened his pace. 

When he reached the east side of the village, he wrinkled his nose. The scent of horse manure permeated the air, thick enough to taste. He soon spotted the stables, a spacious building connected to the fenced pasture, with an open hall through the middle, lined by high stalls. 

A boy cleaned the nearest stall with a sour expression, his clothes stained with dirt and hay. As Cyrus approached, he glanced up and frowned, his hazel eyes peering out suspiciously from beneath a mess of brown hair.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Cyrus. Berrodin told me to bring his donkey here."

"Berrodin, the blacksmith?" The boy asked, relaxing a bit. He studied the donkey, then gestured towards a freshly cleaned stall, stocked with a basin of water, and new hay. "Very well. You can place him there. I'll bring over some oats once I finish cleaning."

"Thank you," Cyrus said. He led Starvhost to the stall, and the donkey eagerly pulled to the hay.

After patting its mane, Cyrus latched the gate and returned to the boy. 

"Do I need to do anything else?"

"No. My father usually tends to his accounts at the beginning of the year, but he's searching for a few missing cows right now, and won't be back until later. "

"I see. I'll let Berrodin know," Cyrus said. He waved farewell to the boy, and hurried back to the stall.

By the time he returned, Berrodin had finished displaying his wares, and now stood haggling with a group of men over the prices.

As they spoke, Cyrus settled against the wagon, and studied the landscape. His gaze shifted from the river, to the mountains and the forest beyond. In the pasture, a herd of cows grazed on the long grass, and flicked their tails at the swarms of mosquitoes. 

As Cyrus watched them, a faint whisper reached his ears, calling to him. He glanced around with a furrowed brow, trying to figure out where the sound was coming from. Once again, it sounded similar to the whispers he heard earlier, only more desperate.