I don't know why I expected something more climatic. Perhaps because all of Gilbert's stories started so dramatically, and in those quiet days as he slept, I had had far too much time to imagine how such a scene would play out. He might awaken yelling for a guardian, that had fallen only moments before I found him, and demanding to know where he was. Darker suspicions feared an attack; some evil magic, used in stealth against me before he opened his eyes. He was young enough, I decided, to wake up crying, as well, terrified instead of angry or vengeful.

None of that happened. Instead, he simply pushed through the blankets, straightened up, and looked blankly at me.

After a long moment of thick silence, I ventured to break it, "Hello, there."

Still, nothing. His eyes darted between me, the door, and the hearth of low-lying flames.

"I found you, half-dead, out in the woods. You're lucky you didn't freeze to death," I paused, long enough for him to jump in with something, perhaps gratitude or otherwise. When he remained silent, I plunged onward in the awkward narrative, "Right near the mountain, actually. You've been asleep for a few days -- that's why your limbs feel so heavy. For a while there, I thought we'd lose you to that terrible fever, but you're perfectly fine now." Another pause, offering him a smile in break of words, and when he still said nothing -- "Are you a mute, boy?"

"No."

He said, finally, his voice small. He shifted where he sat, then reflexively stretched his arms, perhaps only to prove my point.

"Care to tell me why you were in those woods in the first place? Hardly a place for a boy."

He stiffened, his spine straight and shoulders pulled back, and fell back to his preferred method of simply not answering.

"Well," I sighed -- perhaps a different approach was necessary? I wouldn't have appreciated an interrogation of any kind, were I in his shoes. I sat on the edge of the bed, folding my hands in my lap, "This happens far more often than most people realize."

He peered at me, skepticism obvious in his voice, "It does?"

"Oh, yes. After every major war. The men are sent off to battle, and too many of them never return. The breadwinners of the family -- fathers, husbands, brothers. All killed, leaving their families to struggle without them. So, boys like yourself are turned out, sent off into the world on their own, in the hope that they can make it on their own, leaving their mothers with one less mouth to feed." I reached over, patting his hand, "The Crystal War was no different. Orphans still turn up all over the place."

This boy hardly looked the role of a lost orphan, perhaps only because of the skeptical expression he wore.

I released his hands. "You wouldn't be the first person to come to Mysidia, looking for a clean start," I offered, quietly; too honestly. "So, is that it? Were you sent off by your mother, to make it on your own, because she didn't have the means to feed and house you any longer?"

It was such an easy lie, we both knew it. He wouldn't be the first person to come Mysidia on the pretense of a lie, either, and I think he knew that too. He stared down at his hands, probably considering the options before him, and then nodded.

"Yes?" I prompted, and he nodded more empathetically, "Well, then, hardly your fault. You'll feel better once we've gotten a full meal in your belly, and then, after that, we'll worry about getting you back on your feet, hm?" I stood, with the intent of leaving to fetch him just that, a meal, then hesitated, "I didn't get your name." Extending my hand in offer of a handshake, "I'm Penelope, the town elder's niece."

He hesitated, again. Did he recognize that as a lie, as well? There was a strange wisdom in his dark eyes that belied his young face. He finally gripped my hand with a squeeze, replying with, "I'm Brandon."

Brandon and Penelope, both with false names and false histories. It was an interesting start, to say the least.

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