What you leave behind is not what is engraved in stone monuments, but what is woven into the lives of others.
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Coran D'zir.
It was a name linked to epic moments in the history of Trae Kelsa, such as the destruction of Orvere; to a certain Duke renowned and reviled, whose vision of a unified continent was the subject of heated debates; and to perhaps the most despised military force under that same Duke's command: the Ducal Aegis. It was a name recognized by many, a name spoken in tones of fear and wonder, a name some thought better left to time and dust than remembered; and it was a name some believed, in spite of its associations, to be good and a symbol of self-sacrifice. For some recalled the flood those years ago and the man who had thrown himself into its path to save them, their children. It was a name like any other, just as this was a day like any other -- but it was a name of power.
To Coran D'zir, however, it was the only concrete piece of his identity he possessed, because he could not remember anything else about himself. Coran could not remember whether he had ever visited the bakery across the street, or the tailor's shop on the corner. He could not remember the exact year and day he was born, nor what gifts he had received on any subsequent naming days. He could not remember having any family or friends, any sort of occupation or hobbies, and often found himself wondering: Who knows who I really am?
Then, mere days ago, Daveney Sauveterre entered the picture.
Before he met Daveney, Coran had had difficulty differentiating between what was real and what was illusion -- the product of a sick, overwhelmed mind and a skewed imagination, or so he postulated. Regardless, it had made human interaction all but impossible; Coran was glad his recollection of that time, however long it had been, was at best a blurred shape in a shifting sea of fog, distant and indistinct. Conversely, though, he wished he were aware of the amount of time that had passed between then and now, as it might shed light on further evidence of a history he had lived but could not call to mind. For that matter, Coran was not even certain of how he had arrived in Myrkentown -- he had been ... somewhere, he had no idea where, but somewhere else; and then, in what had seemed the blink of an eye, he had been walking down the Ravensridge Road, lost as a newborn pup and staring, dizzy with uncertainty. Coran had gone inside the first building he laid eyes on: the teahouse where Daveney was employed.
What then followed was a strange, almost surreal encounter, one Coran still had trouble explaining, even to himself; but there had been no question about whether it was real or an intricate delusion woven from the tattered fabric of his memories. Now especially, since he and Daveney were mounted and on their way to a yet undisclosed location. They were to meet a woman who knew Coran on a personal level, who in theory should be able to provide him with insight to his actual self, but Daveney had not spoken of her beyond imparting that information.
One of the questions Daveney had asked him yesterday was, "Can you ride?" At the time, Coran had had no answer but to say he would try -- that once he was on a horse, maybe it would come back to him. He had hoped it would; otherwise, they were looking forward to a long and probably uncomfortable journey. As it turned out, however, Coran did know how to ride, and they set off without word or ceremony.
It was midmorning, and the sun was a ball of molten gold in an otherwise clear blue sky, battering them with the heat of its unseen fists; there was a slight breeze, just strong enough to offer a modicum of solace and make their imminent journey bearable. Coran was dressed for the weather: he wore a thin shirt of beige linen, its sleeves rolled up to his elbows and unlaced at the chest; a pair of dun-colored wool trousers of a fine, light weave; and the very same boots Daveney had given him less than two nights prior, which he had taken the time to polish and shine. They had been on the road for less than an hour now -- long enough to be outside the town proper, but not yet at the halfway point of their trip -- and they were alone, save for the occasional merchant's train. The land was low and smooth around them, with scatterings of trees, and their horses' pace afforded them the luxury of enjoying the relative serenity of the scenery. Coran, though, did not take up that offer; instead, he posited a question to Daveney.
"Would you like to tell me now about the person we're going to see?" Coran inquired, turning to look at her with blue-gray eyes full of expectant curiosity.
