A Call to Action (Final)

A small girl, bright as a spring flower, sat on the floor of a wooden hut. There was little decoration to be found, but her wandering green eyes never failed to find something to latch on to.

Above her, a whiskered old man softly took a brush to the tangled mess of golden hair, smiling ever so gently as he heard the sweet hums of his beloved granddaughter.

A wrinkled hand wound through the long tufts, often having to twist her head back in place when an inquisitive mind found something of interest.

"Be still, young lady. Always tossing and turning..."

"Sorry," She muttered with a pout, "Can't you go faster, Grandpa?"

"It would have already been over if I didn't have a badger for a girl." Brush strokes turned a bit more forceful with a wider smile.

To think she had the nerve to complain, coming to him with a head as tangled as a thorn bush. Still, what could be done? Her energy seemed to never fade, despite the passing of each year.

The old man let out a huff as he resumed the great task of fixing the hair, doing his utmost to not yank a single strand. 

But alas, only so much could be done. Between the knots and shaky hands, plenty of small yelps came from their session, along with an aggrieved look for every infraction.

"Do you think mom could help?" She entreated.

Her grandfather couldn't help but snort, noticing the sharp glances she sent to a brush full of hair freed from her scalp.

"Ungrateful, are we? You're lucky it's me doing this. But if you want, I can call her over. I'm sure she would love to hear how you let it get this bad. And... do you really want the scissors?"

A vehement shake of her head provided enough of an answer on how she felt about scissors.

"Heh—are you sure? It'll be fast. She can even give you a cute little bowl cut while we're at it."

Her hands shot to the top of her head, guarding it as if her locks were held at scissor-point. "No! I don't want a bowl cut!"

"But Tommy has one." He argued, playful gray eyes betraying his true thoughts.

"I don't want to look like Tommy, he's ugly... Ah!" She squealed, shocked by a disapproving smack to her head.

"Don't be mean. He is a nice young man, unlike a rude little girl I know."

"Grandpa..."

"Uhuh, no arguing. Mean girls that argue go bald." A wave of the brush emphasized his threat, eliciting another round of frightful screams.

After her terror died down, the wizened old man sat her back in place.

"Now, let's get your head all fixed up." 

"Hurry!"

"I am, I am. Don't worry; we're almost done."

It wasn't a lie, either. He had made sizeable progress on the rat's nest, though there was still some left on the ends. 

His mind slowly became set on sending the girl on her way for whatever playdate she had in mind. Even a man as weathered as he had duties, loathe as he was to complete them.

But not a single stroke through, the guiding hand froze as something shattered deep within him.

It started out as a distant echo. A small ripple colliding against the wall of a levee.

Yet, the sound only grew. From an echo, it became a song, a haunting melody wrapped around his conscious mind.

Demanding. 

Reminding.

'No...' he thought, his hands trembling ever so slightly, though he endeavored to keep his movements steady for the sake of the little girl.

'No!'

His eyes turned bloodshot as he gaped in horror at his chest. Strands of white wrapped and wove a rope, repairing a tether he once thought broken.

The comb slipped through shaking fingers as he swung his hands through the cord, an attempt to shoo away the past as memories surged from within him, unraveling like the hair upon the girl's head.

His legs shot him upright as he slowly backed away with growing dread, blind to the confusion on his dearest granddaughter's face.

'It can't be!'

It was over; there was no need to go back.

...Then why—why could he hear the song? 

Why did he remember the name he cast aside?

"—pa. Grandpa!"

Her cry, wreathed with tears at his outburst, snapped him back as he felt her small arms wrapped around his waist.

"Oh... Lisbeth, it's you..."

The girl's worries only grew as her emerald eyes met the listless marbles: empty shells of what she was used to seeing.

"Are you okay? You are scaring me..."

"Y-yes," He stuttered, swooping Lisbeth into his arms. "I just thought I heard something."

"What did you hear?"

"...I heard... your mom's footsteps! We need to hide: quick!"

Confused inquiries turned to uncontrollable giggles as he ran the both of them into a musty closet, holding her out as Lisbeth peaked outside.

"See anything?"

"All clear." She whispered, giving a thumbs up.

"Phew, that was close. I swear, only your mom can make an old man break out into a run." Returning to his chair, he picked up the comb and resumed brushing, this time with Lisbeth upon his lap. 

"There you go: as good as new." 

Jumping from his thigh, Lisbeth flashed a jubilant smile as she fluffed her hair, barely managing to say 'thank you' before bolting out of the door.

It seemed like she was eager to play... and no doubt earn a few more knots along the way.

"Kids." He muttered, shaking a weary head.

Sitting in a room as silent as a crypt, his mind once more went to the glowing white string, ever a grim reminder of the reality he had found himself in.

"My name is Sean," He spoke aloud, a bit louder than most would expect from the old man, as he rocked back and forth in his worn chair.

"I live in a village with my daughter and her child. An old blacksmith, who helps with the kids when the others are out."

Forced assurance filled his voice, just barely adding the tiniest sliver of confidence.

That was who he was.

The string. The horn. The call.

None was real. Just the fluke of an aging mind and tired body.

"I am Sean," He repeated.

'There is no Astolos.'