“Stephan, what’s wrong with Lacy?” Mike the guard approached, head still on his shoulders, eyes searching Stephan’s face with wariness.
Stephan looked at the surprisingly alive man and remembered his nightmares.
Right. He stood. I have a job to do.
“Sound the alarm, Mike,” Stephan wiped away the tears with the back of his hand. “Fae are about to attack.”
“What are you—”
“Do it now, soldier,” Stephan barked. The keen edge of his voice shook the Sentry, and Mike gave the sloppiest salute Stephan had ever received before he started ringing and hollering.
Stephan grabbed the butcher’s cleaver off the stall and dashed for the gate. The shouting merchant’s protests followed him, but soon drowned as a mass of people rushed towards the square.
Nobody dies. Stephan clenched his jaw. There’s no need for anyone to die here.
The cleaver weighed nothing in his hand, and his legs devoured the ground. He ran so fast his boots kicked up dirt from the well-packed road. He drew a deep breath, lungs expanding so much they hurt his ribs as his body struggled to catch up with the growth from his previous life.
“Who are you?” Buck held his crossbow, string taut, bolt aimed square at Stephan’s chest. The Sentry eyed the cleaver with panic.
“Stephan Cobblerson,” Stephan said, aware of what had happened. “A band of fae will arrive shortly. You better go to the square; I’ll handle them.”
Buck hesitated. His eyes moved from the bloodless cleaver to Stephan’s face and the look of absolute confidence, then he bolted into Brighthollow.
Is he running for reinforcements or following my orders?
It made no difference; the gremlins were already there, sitting in the branches, their greenish-blue bodies almost invisible in the canopy. Almost. Somehow the leaves stirred in the wind as if the creatures weren’t there at all.
“Come on, Bluecap! Come here so we can settle this matter between the two of us.”
A ripple of unease spread through the treetops before a high-pitched voice sounded.
“You think you’re so important, all big with a hatchet, aren’t ya?” The familiar gremlin with a blue cap hopped off from a tree, a child-sized scythe in his hand. “Well, I’ll cut ya down to proper size.”
The surrounding fae clapped and laughed, then Stephan moved.
He charged at the gremlin, whose bulging eyes grew even wider as the distance between them vanished. Bluecap jumped to dodge, then his lifeless body and the cleaved, bloody cap dropped to the grass.
The gremlins fell silent; the rustle of leaves suddenly louder.
“Go back home or I’ll kill you all.” Stephan wrenched the cleaver from the dead Bluecap.
“He killed the cap,” one of the tiny fae muttered in a mournful voice.
“Damn shame that. I was eyeing that thing.”
The critters slipped into the branches, scattering in the forest while muttering and grieving for the blue cap. While strange and unexpected, they left without causing an incident. Stephan waited to make sure they were gone, then went back into Brighthollow. He walked slowly towards the square, thinking what he should do with the knowledge of the future.
Lord Harrington can’t die. His wife can’t kill him. I need to tell him to take care of her properly. Stephan grit his teeth. My healing is still too weak to cure Bernard, and while I am fast, I won’t make it to intercept Queen Eleanor before her secret is out.
Then there’s Margaret and the Cliffort warlock.
He was almost at the square when he decided on his course of action.
I’ll go somewhere else. A simple letter warning Harrington of his imminent problems should be more than enough to handle Cliffort and its siege. With just a few pieces of information, he will prepare a better plan than I ever could.
Stephan, a bloody cleaver in hand, entered the square drowned in murmurs of tense townsfolk. Silence came at the sight of blood dripping from the blade.
“What’s the meaning of this, Stephan?” Lady Clara approached him, and he really didn’t want to make more of a fuss than necessary.
“I killed a gremlin called Bluecap, he and his were coming here to massacre the town. I need to write a letter for Marshal Harrington of Cliffort, and Old Tod will deliver it. Other than that, I have something else I should do.”
The shock had yet to set when Stephan pushed his way forward through the crowd. He ignored the stunned Priest, and hopped onto the stall filled with questionable cabbages, squishing them beneath his shoddy boots.
“What’s the meaning—” Much like his produce, Darren wilted under Stephan’s glare.
“Those of you who’ve never seen me before today, raise your hands.”
Stephan’s presence and commanding aura flared, hands shooting up. Lacy’s was among them, Buck’s too, then Stephan’s heart clenched. Tom, his oldest brother, had raised his hand, their parents staring at him wide-eyed.
Lacy, then Tom. Two people who knew me best. Who’s next? Greg? Mum?
After scanning the crowd, Stephan found that nineteen others had forgotten him.
“What is the meaning of this?” the ever-composed Lady Clara had lost all semblance of control over the situation.
Stephan hopped off the stall and flicked the cleaver behind his back, its blade spinning through the air before it bit into the beam of the butcher’s stand with a thud.
“Follow me to the temple, Lady Clara,” he looked at the gathered Sentries. “You too, Tod.”
They followed without protest or questions, leaving a confused crowd behind as Stephan’s mother started screaming at her oldest son in panic.
I have to sort that out, he thought, his heart breaking. Is there a point? None of this will ever happen.
Why don’t I just go hang myself?
If we commit evil, if we disregard our duty, but nobody sees it, are we doing anything wrong? He cited the book, remembering the answer. It was real to him. While the events would be a rootless duckweed to everyone, cause and effect detached from history, he would remember. He would know.
Rot on you, Tristan. Rot on all of you. Why didn’t you fix all the world’s problems already? You all lived over a hundred years, and yet did nothing worthwhile.
Stephan knew he was being unfair, but he simmered with rage. Lacy had forgotten him. Just as he feared. I was ignoring the problem, pretending it wouldn’t happen. But I thought we would have more…
By the time he reached the temple, he was calm. Much like the hot summer air, his head cooled between the thick walls of the house of gods. Only then did he realize that Old Tod was trotting behind him while Lady Clara ran to keep up.
“I am the Paladin,” he said without pausing to explain things. “I will write an important letter for the Marshal of the East, Lord Harold Harrington. You, Tod, will deliver it to him personally, and you will tell him it was from the Paladin himself. Is that understood?”
Theodore nodded, and Stephan addressed Lady Clara.
“No questions?” he said briskly. “Good. In that case, I need some writing implements and something I can write a message on. I trust the temple has parchment?”
The old woman was pale, horrified, but still moved to carry out Stephan’s orders.
“For your sake, and for the safety of everyone in Brighthollow, you two will safeguard this secret. I will leave tomorrow morning after I spend a bit of time with my family and say my farewells.”
Is one evening really enough?
It wasn’t. Stephan knew a lifetime wasn’t enough, and yet, he needed closure. They needed closure. Will I be able to do this next time? Go through the same conversations, listen to the same questions, watch them cry for me? One fewer among them?
He wouldn’t. The closure, the talk, the whole evening would be for him, not for them. They would forget. Forget him, the evening, and everything else that happened after he had gotten his class.
It’s for the best. When everything is over, they will live in a world in which they never had a son called Stephan. You can’t lose what you don’t have.
Just as Stephan thought how he was starting to sound like those Paladins writing their philosophy, Lady Clara returned with a scroll, ink, and a quill.
“When did you learn to write like that?” she asked as his hand flowed once he started writing.
Brighthollow’s children never really learned how to write, while Stephan’s hand glided on parchment with greater ease than Lady Clara’s could.
“Becoming a Paladin comes with benefits and drawbacks,” he answered, his quill never pausing, never wavering.
“What level are you?” she asked before realizing she had committed a taboo.
As a Priest she could easily see everyone’s level and class, but she didn’t dare inspect Stephan. Not that she could divine anything.
“Tod can tell you his guess.”
“Level twenty-five, maybe thirty,” the old Sentry erred wildly, but he was evaluating raw combat potential based on his own, and Stephan was certain he could crush him without breaking a sweat.
Lady Clara fell on her rear again, and Stephan wondered whether it was Fate forcing her to fall down like that in his presence.
Stephan blew on the parchment before furling it.
“Here’s the message, Tod. You can leave now or tomorrow morning, whichever suits you best. I’m off to talk with my family. And Lady Clara,” he helped the old woman up. “Please don’t try to help Lacy or my brother remember who I am. Any of them. They won’t, and any attempt to help would cause them needless pain. Better if nobody ever mentioned me again.”
Because, in the end, nobody will.