Page 77 of Palingenesis

The scar I’d recognized anywhere is right there, lighter than last I recall, but sure as shit trailing from beneath his eye to end right above his mouth.

“This seat taken?”

I read the spoken words on his lips clear as fucking day because I’m staring right at them.

His head finally tilts when I lack all response, my brain too fried to do anything but flounder, and I feel the vibration of my discomfort radiate up my throat.

“Sorry,” I sign. “I’m Deaf.”

The softening of his features comes only a moment before he sets his cup down on my table, tilting his hood back enough to show a messy bun of blood red hair and points to a familiar bud in his pierced ear.

My stomach swoops right out my asshole.

Then he lifts his hands to respond.

“I asked if this seat was taken?”

Epilogue 2

Ilios

Marble pillars stretch toward the sky, towering well above the heads of patrons that come to drop their trinkets and gifts. The pillars are as wide as ten men each, erected with enough strength to withstand the gods it houses, and trail along mosaic titles that go as far as the eye can see.

There is no part of it that does not reflect the brilliant rays from the sun and the mist of the morn, glistening in the early light of day like the surface of the water solidified.

It is a sight I would consider beautiful on an average day; far more worthy of my attention than the meager sacrifices placed at my feet.

Pieces of meat, hunks of cheeses, gourds of honey and goblets of Ambrose I fully intend to partake in once the sun settles beyond the horizon.

None of them draw my eye this day as they have for all others.

Thus, my gaze is upon the being that places fresh ones there as if he is one of them. There is nothing familiar about him or his gait as he leaves the food before me. Nothing that suggests he is of the same kin.

His robes are slightly disheveled and ill fitting, swaying around each of his steps to collect the dirt in his path. They’re unwashed and unkempt.

He reeks of peasant and yet, I sense he is not one.

The hair upon his head is as wild as the gleam in his eye when he catches me staring.

Where one might cower, he does not.

Others may scamper away, deflect my pointed gaze, or voice an apology.

This one does nothing of the sort.

Merely, he stands taller with his body squaring as if to prepare for more than just my gaze upon him. He straightens as if readying himself for a fight.

“What is your name?” I ask him, voice thundering about the great hall I call my home.

My guest tucks his woven basket beneath his arm and holds his hands before him. Dangling. Innocent.

His voice conveys none such things. “I am from the outer lands. I have no name.”

Narrowing my gaze upon him, I crook a finger in his direction to summon him closer, though he does not follow the instruction. “You bring offerings with no name?”

The blue of his irises, the kind that rivals the evening sky, dips momentarily to the bench littered with everything a man could wish for on his darkest night. Enough food to feed armies and plenty of drink to imbibe for weeks on end.

With a flare to his eyes and a bravery to his step, he approaches on his own terms. “You bring them peace. I do not judge.”