Tears of pain

  The soft crackling sounds of the bonfire in the air cast flickering gold light across Ronan's face as he sat in stunned silence.

  Flint.

  He had finally met Flint.

  Ronan had waited for this moment since he had first heard the whispers—late-night stories around the fire, hushed and reverent, about a man who had survived when none others had. A man tethered to a noble house that had fallen into the grave of calamity. A house that might—might be—the missing thread to Ronan's already convoluted past.

  He had hoped. He had prayed. And days turned into weeks of waiting with no sign of Flint, fraying that strength of spirit.

  But now, on a somehow emotionally charged day, the same day he had finally told Caelan that it was never going to work, Flint appeared. In silence and out-of-nowhere. Like some mischievous fate had waited till Ronan had given up on one incarnation to move forward with the next.

  The old chap had spoken little. A few casual words, now tempered with some unnamed burden.

  Ronan did not even remember what they had talked about; only the thick silence that pulsed between sentences, and that flicker of something long-buried and hurt lurking in Flint's tired eyes.

  And then, just like that, Flint stood and walked away.

  Ronan did not have a chance to register the event until the man's shaggy silhouette was almost lost to the dark.

  Ronald half-got up, the instinct for him was to go after him; something or someone laid a hold on his arm.

  "Don't," said one of the regulars of the fire: this rotund woman with grey streaked hair and a voice full of honey.

  "He'll be back," said the one with a gloomy tone. "He just... doesn't like being seen while he cries."

  Another man nodded slightly, "Looks tough, but he's soft inside. Has always been."

  "He's been like this for a long time. Decades, maybe. But even so, he doesn't seem to forget. Does not let them go from his mind," the younger servant conjured under low voice.

  Slowly, Ronan sat back down. His heart raced.

  "Hush!" someone murmured. "He was the only one to come out alive."

  A pause.

  "And no one knows how."

  The heat of the flames was almost too bright; it flickered and crackled, and all eyes grew distant in their own memories. The fire exploded, sending a spark dancing into the night air, and held the note.

  Finally, an old man with a face lined by the sun came and sat down beside Ronan, his gait slow but steady.

  "You know," the man said kindly but in a gravelly voice, "Flint was already an old man when the young master of that house was born."

  Another man slid into the seat on Ronan's other side, nodding. "I still remember—he handed out sweets the day that child came into the world. Said it was the happiest day of his life."

  Between them existed an exchange of smiles that spoke silent volumes as they shared in the memory.

  "Flint had served the House Aerenthal since he was a lad himself," the first old man continued. "He saw three generations grow up under that roof. Loyal as a hound. Knew the estate like the lines on his hands."

  The name hit Ronan like a jolt—Aerenthal. It rang with something he couldn’t quite place. Almost familiar. Almost known.

  "What happened to them," he said, shaking his head slowly, "broke him. He has not been the same since. He doesn't talk about it. To anyone."

  "But we all see it," the first old man added, looking in the direction in which Flint had gone. "How he sits against the wind. How he stares into the flames, as though they might somehow resurrect the past."

  Ronan, hence, stayed silent. Every part of him was on fire, his senses attuned like a page about to be turned.

  What would follow, he did not know. Yet something told him...

  Flint knew.

  And the moment he returned, Ronan would be ready.

  Ashes and Embers

  Flint seemed to have spent an eternity away from the bonfire, even when, in reality, it was only a matter of fifteen minutes before he returned.

  He moved slowly, a steaming mug of tea held tight in one hand, his coat tucked tighter around his chest as if he had just wrestled the night itself. He sat down at his usual spot without a word, as if he'd never left at all.

  The others ignored him the moment he stepped inside. Perhaps they'd gotten quite used to this sort of quiet disappearing act. Perhaps they understood Flint's needs better than Ronan did.

  Somebody was still trying to cheer the group up.

  "Well, look who's back. Did the shadows let you go willingly this time?"

  Flint grunted and took a sip from his mug. "Only after I promised not to steal their firewood again."

  A few chuckles circulated among the group.

  One maid leaned closer and grinned. "Come on, old fool. You just went behind the shed and had a good cry and cigar."

  Flint shrugged. "That's slander. I haven't smoked in four days."

  "Ah, then it was a good cry."

  The laughter rose easily, familiar. For a moment, the decades that separated them melted away, and even Flint seemed just a little lighter.

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  But as the fire settled and conversations began thinning into quiet pockets, Ronan stood. The embers threw his shadow long against the ground as he drew near Flint.

  "I want to talk to you," he said almost breezily, voice quieter than the wind.

  Flint looked up. Sharp as they were, those eyes-of age-stayed on Ronan's face, seemingly trying to study something deeper than appearances.

  "Sure, young man," he said enigmatically. "What's your name?"

  "Ronan." He seemed to inhale before adding, "I've been waiting for you."

  Flint tilted his head slightly, as if Ronan's name stirred something-but he said nothing; he waited instead.

  Ronan sank down beside him, the firelight dancing between them. For a moment, he didn't know where to start. But then the words came, slow but steady.

  "I lost everything," he said. "My past... my name... my identity. All of it... gambled away."

  Flint's eyebrows twitched, but he remained silent.

  "There was a man named Lukas," Ronan continued, "He told me to run... He gave me a chance to live when others wanted me dead. I didn't understand then, but I trusted him. He was kind."

  The memories flickered like the dancing flames in front of him.

  "I met an old woman... Marta. She found me, half alive. She... she saved me. Told me I had to leave, again. That I wasn't safe. She never explained much. Just... asked me to keep going."

  He gazed darkly, as if Veyris still lay just beyond the tree line.

  "I ended up in Veyris. But something was wrong... no matter how hard I tried to remember, everything just felt foggy. My very own memories slipping away like sand between fingers."

  His voice snagged, and Flint's gaze sharpened.

  "I don't even know what I'm forgetting. Faces, names... even feelings. It's like someone stole them from me, but left the ache behind."

  Ronan gave a quiet, humorless laugh. "I sound insane, don't I?"

  "No," Flint stated, firm, even without hesitation.

  Ronan knew it up and continued thereafter.

  "When I returned to Marta... she was dying. But she gave me a final gift. Her home. Her love. And she sent me here... to Eldoria. Said someone would find me here. That someone would help."

  There was no reading into Flint's expression, still as stone.

  "Now I reside with a boy named Issac, and we help survive together. But I still wake up at night with memories trying to take me back to who I really am."

  Ronan hesitated before continuing.

  "Someone told me you might know the story. About a family that fell. About a man named Marcus. About the victims he left behind. I think I might be one of them."

  There was silence then between them.

  The fire crackled; beyond that there was no sound.

  Finally, Flint set down his cup.

  His voice was very low, almost inaudible. Ronan had to lean in to hear.

  "I once knew someone like you," Flint said, his gaze lost far away. "Someone who burned too bright, too fast... and then forgot by the world."

  He never bothered to continue.

  But Ronan knew-this was only the beginning.

  Of answers.

  Of truth.

  And of the past rising from the ashes.

  The Shadow Beside the Flame

  Flint is gazing at the fire, staring, eyes glazed with the weight of memory. His voice comes slowly, peeling away layers of ash to reveal buried embers.

  "His name was Ron," he said, almost a whisper. "Short for Ronan."

  Ronan caught his breath. He felt it deep; an ache, like something beneath his ribs suddenly seized. A sharp, phantom tug in the chest, the kind that comes not from hearing something new … but from hearing something once lost.

  Flint didn't notice it, or maybe he did but chose to say nothing.

  "Ron was ... well, he was wild," Flint continued, laughing a bit. "One year older than the young master of Aerenthal. Gods, he was a firestorm: hyper, strong, always running off to climb trees or sneak into the kitchens for pies; never sat still. But always—always—watching over the young master like it was his life's purpose."

  "He was that close to him?" Ronan asked, his voice low and cautious.

  "Close?" Flint attempted a smile. "You couldn't separate the two if you tried. They were inseparable. You'd see them charging down the halls, laughing like the world was theirs. And when trouble came knocking... Ron was always the first to act."

  He paused, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "That boy had magic in his blood- old magic. I don't know how or why, but he used it not for mischief- well, not only for mischief- but to protect. Especially the young master."

  Ronan leans unconsciously forward into the sweet promise of every word.

  "I remember this one time..." Flint chuckled, not quite innocent, the sound tinged with grief. "There was some rogue mage who got by all the guards. Tried to assail the young master out in the courtyard. Before anyone could even think of doing anything, Ron threw himself in between them. Used a raw force magic- he hadn't even studied force yet, just felt it- and knocked the attacker back so hard the stones cracked beneath him."

  Ronan parted his lips slightly, a familiar fullness stirring inside as if he were a familiar echo whispering at the edge of his recognition.

  Flint went on.

  "Another time, they got lost in the woods. Three-fourths of children would panic. Not Ron. He built a fire, hid them with an illusion spell-and left signs so we could find them. Smart little devil."

  He gave a quiet laugh. "But the one that really stuck with me... there was a feast day. Dozens of guests. One of the nobles' sons tried to humiliate the young master, sabotaged his spell casting scroll. When the boy failed, they laughed... until Ron walked up to the noble's son and publicly duplicated his scroll with a perfect illusion. Made him fumble in front of the entire court."

  Ronan smiled before he could stop himself.

  Flint sighed, and the smile fell. His eyes glistened slightly in the firelight.

  "They were the best of friends. And they were just boys."

  Illusions and Echoes

  Flint had another moment of silence. When he spoke again, his voice carried a little softness, some distance.

  "Ron... Was lucky," he said. "Lucky to have the young master as his best friend. How many can claim such a bond? And the family... they treated him like their own."

  Ronan looked at him, intrigued. "They accepted a servant's grandson that easily?"

  "You don't know the Aerenthals," Flint said, his smile sad yet warm. "They were not just powerful—they were kind. Gentle people, full of heart. Ron was more than staff. The master and madam saw promise in him... saw him for who he really was. They let him eat with the young master, sleep in the same room, learn from the same tutors."

  Another sip.

  "And on the day of his ninth birthday, something miraculous happened: Ron was given his anchor card."

  Ronan blinked. "And what's an anchor card?"

  Flint looked over at him, eyes now sparkling with old pride. "It is a magical trait, unique to those with a natural bond to the essence of the world. Most mages receive their anchor cards in their late teens—some never do. But Ron... he got his at nine."

  "What kind was it?"

  "Illusion," came Flint's answer, weighted with memory. "He could make things appear—or disappear—from the eyes of others. Not just images... full sensory illusion. Sound, smell, light. Strong enough to fool even trained guards."

  Ronan was staring intently at the flames. Illusion. There was something about that word that pulled at a corner of his mind, like a trick mirror.

  "I remember them using it on me all the time," Flint chuckled softly. "Once, they made it seem like a goose had followed me into the house. I ran around trying to shoo it for ten minutes. I thought I was losing my mind."

  Ronan caught himself letting out a tiny laugh.

  "And another time... oh, they made it seem as if I had gone bald. I was only in my forties then, still had hair like a lion." Flint ran a hand through his now-thinning hair. "I went through that entire day with everybody watching me rub my scalp as I thought someone had placed a curse upon me. I did not really realize I had been had until the cook pointed out their laughter."

  The smile disappeared.

  "They were just children. Yet... so much illumination passed between them."

  He did not say the rest.

  Darkness came.

  Yet it settled into the atmosphere, as thick as smoke.

  Ronan spoke not a word. Some odd longing lay in the region of his chest, mingled with a great deal of almost guilty feeling.

  As if far away in the ashes of who he had been, that boy still lived.

  Waiting for someone to remember him itself.

  The One He Never Reached

  Flint's eyes seemed to shift towards the sky as if with that gaze he could force the stars above to replay the past.

  "Did you know," he almost whispered, "that my Ron found even his destined one?"

  Ronan tilted his head slightly, his breath hitching in his throat.

  "It was on a trip," his voice lighter now, and tinged with some ancient fondness, continued Flint. "He and master and the young master went to this other city-diplomatic visit, probably-and that was where everything happened."

  A subtle smile curled at the corner of Flint's mouth- a gentleness kindled with nostalgia.

  "The moment he saw him, he said, 'the world stood still.' Like something ancient swooped down and gripped his soul. Said the pull was... indefinable."

  Flint chuckled under his breath, shaking his head.

  "For one whole week after returning, that boy was non-stop. 'He had the most striking eyes, Grandpa! Like winter skies right before a storm.' 'He smelled of jasmine and ink.' 'I think my heart actually stopped when he smiled.'"

  Ronan blinked and thought he could see flashes for a moment: someone standing in the kitchen, eyes that seemed familiar, and a voice in a dream he could not place.

  "He kept saying he would grow up, become strong, become deserving. 'Grandpa, I will make place for him. With everything I have, I would protect him. Just wait and see, 'he said."

  For a moment, a tremor of uncertainty crawled across his smile.

  " He even convinced the young master to come with him when the time was right. Said they could all live there together, safe, with love all around."

  Then silence fell between them before Flint weighed the words that came next.

  "But," he murmured, "that boy never had a chance to grow old, nor did he ever return to the one his soul had chosen."

  Ronan was silent.

  Because, much more than anything else, he couldn't break the silence. Something inside had snapped.

  Names in the Ashes

  It all hit Ronan, all at once.

  Not so much like a great wave; rather, like a plunge.

  An unexpected, big drop into an abyss of feeling so powerful that he could hardly breathe.

  His eyes burned with tears that fell before he had a chance to wipe them away. His shoulders trembled under the burden of something unknown, unspoken, but felt deeply.

  When his voice did emerge, it was hoarse.

  "It is a sad thing to hear," he said.

  Flint did not respond, only watched the fire in silence.

  After a pause that must have felt interminable, Ronan asked, "What about your son?"

  At that, Flint's countenance fell.

  "What of that useless son?" he sneered. "Lukas is nothing but a disgrace to my family. Always was."

  Lukas.

  Ronan froze. The name echoed in his ears.

  Lukas?

  He looked down at his hands, a fleeting memory brushing against his skin like a cold wind.

  Ronan.

  Lukas.

  The names. The faces. The fragments.

  Was it just coincidence?

  Or was something buried beneath the surface of this life-something clawing its way back?

  So much. So many crossover paths-pointing at a story he could not remember living, but whose grief lived within him, nonetheless.

  Flint rose very slow to his feet.

  "It has been a pleasure conversing with you, young man," he said, dusting off his robe.

  "Wait-please," Ronan cut in, standing. "I want to know more. I must."

  Flint halted. His eyes roamed Ronan, and for that moment-simply a second, something that felt ancient, and knowing flickered in them-like he was seeing someone quite different altogether.

  Then he gave a single nod.

  "Meet me at the Aerenthal mansion tomorrow," he said. "Same time. We'll talk."

  With that, Flint turned away, his figure swallowed by the dark, leaving Ronan behind in the swirl of firelight and unanswered questions.

  For a long time, Ronan remained there, thoroughly immersed in the thick fog of emotion and confusion.

  He did not know what awaited him on the morrow.

  But he knew one thing.

  He would be there.