There had once been a lesson to be learned. How long it had taken a shadow to draw away and vanish; for a sword, once broken, then remade, to be broken again. How long did that take?

How long did it survive?

How long could it survive?

How long did it take to dance the little puppet on strings before boredom and effect had finished their task, and then the strings were cut? Promises had been made. Promises of a fate worse than death. What can be worse than death?

Half-life.

And then...

There was once a hole. It did not start out as a large one, but with some work it might have grown larger. The edge of a rock, sharp and hard, to pull away the loose dirt. It would take some time, oh yes, but it could be done. Anything could be safe there in that hole in the ground. The rain would make it muddy, the snow would block it and need digging again, but the wind wasn't there. The wind was always there though, wasn't it? Turn around, and there it is. Unless it's not. You're inside. You keep it out. It stays out on its own, doesn't it? Does it not? Why? Hands clutch to temples, pulling at hair that was receding over the brow. Why? Because, if something happens on a specific day, and then it does not, then ordered reason demands that the former is an imposter of the first. Is the wind an imposter, then?

What sort of sense does that make? None. Or does it? No. The prologue of the past has already been written. The dice are out of the cup. There's nothing for it, now. Nothing at all. I'm glad we agree.

There had once been a shadow. It got away from him. No. He ignored it. No. He lost it. No. No. No...

...He didn't know anymore. Just just didn't know. Don't know? No. Why not? I... don't know. It has happened. I remember it. The greatest loss. What was it? It was there. And then? And then lost. Like you?

In a hole in the ground, there lived a man, but the man was lost. There were memories, and there were thoughts - and so there were regrets. But something that used to be there was gone.

A spirit. That driving passion that kept one moving forward when every fiber of every muscle screamed to go stop, when every thought in the mind pleaded to go back. What did it take to find that again? What would it take to care about moving? Survival. If there is hunger, it must eat. If there is thirst, it must drink. Is that enough? It must be. Is there more?

There is always more. There is living.

...What is the point?

In a hole in the ground, there lived... survived, a hollow shell. Did the shell survive? Did the shell live? How long had the hollow man-shape sit there, hour after hour, minute after minute, staring at the dirt between his boots. Broken... yes. Not his mind. That would have been a relief. His mind was hale and whole, leaving him with memories and more memories; of what was, of what will never be, of why things are they way they are. What had once been reforged after so much time and effort was no more. He was shattered, now, and that shattering had been brutal and remorseless and? and? and?

But he was free.

...And his knee still ached.

There never seemed much point to living, did there?

Very seldom in life were you given the freedom of true choice. As a young man, he had been born into a role that had been prepared for him, and he had executed it well. When he became something else, it was only with the illusion of choice - to accept, or to perish in the most permanent way imaginable. Later... he had been places, he had worn uniforms, wielded a blacksmith's hammer, threw a banner to the sky and named himself the Iron Lion. All things that had been asked of him, or things that had been expected of him. None ever really, truly, his choice.

So why should he make a choice now? Why should he get up, brush himself off, and try to return to his life?

When he was hungry, he ate. When he was tired, he slept. Exposure had started to wither him, skin drawing taut to his bones, raising lines in his face that he saw in the reflection of the stream when he took water. Lines he hadn't seen in more years than he could remember. His clothes were tattered, barely holding together by the threadwork, and entirely unsuitable to any weather. Too thin for the winter, too coarse for the summer. His hair, past his shoulders now if it were straight, was a tangled, matted mess of intermixed black and silver... but he had no need to do anything about that, either. So long as it stayed out of his way. More and more frequently however, it did not.

No wonder she always wore a braid.

In a hole in the ground, there sat Ayreg, knees folded up against his chest, waiting until he grew hungry, or grew tired, and all the while his brain working like the clockwork gears of a gnome's tinkered contraption. Those thoughts ground exceedingly fine, churning over elements of his life, of regrets and past actions; of what might have been, and what was, or should be.

His eyes opened when he heard the snap of a twig outside his burrowed hole. Living like a rat didn't do much for his mood, true, but it was better than being rained on, and snowed on. A burrow in a thicket; so more rabbit than rat. The thicket was large though, with enough room for him to stand straight, though Ayreg was not, himself, a tall man. Unfolding himself, Jodiah moved forward, ignoring the creaking ache in his joints from hours of uninterrupted stillness, and made his way forward toward the vertical shaft reaching out of his hole. He reached up and out, pulling himself up from the hole and into the cover of the thicket. It was dark, yes, but the moon was full and glowed like a bright, silver coal in the sky, visible through the thick twists and knots of branches and twigs. His eyes had long-since adjusted to the blackness, and, on a night like tonight, he could see fairly well.

There was a man standing in the thicket. The man had green eyes as bright as balefire and dark hair shorn short to his skull. His features were severe, his mouth down-turned slightly as if he found everything distasteful. Ayreg blinked.

"You're supposed to be here," he said, his throat issuing a dry rasp from disuse.

"Are you still living in this hole?" The man sighed, disapprovingly.

"You are not supposed to be here!" he repeated, his voice rising, and gaining strength.