| [ Wellspring is unchanged when Erhardt returns, and so it seems like to remain thereafter. That is, not only does the town breathe easier in the absence of any immediate threat, but not a day goes by without some grateful gesture sent his way, from notes to gifts. He keeps the former to tuck each one away inside a tin in his quarters, leaving the latter to Bale and his men. There are well wishes aplenty for his swordsman friend, too, and when Olberic writes, they have words to wield in lieu of weapons.
The past can never be undone — by rights, it isn't a matter of letting bygones be bygones, nor would lifelong atonement cleanse the blood from Erhardt's hands — and it feels foreign still, to parry Olberic's every how fares Wellspring with wry wit rusted over. But Erhardt catches himself daring to breathe again, shallow breaths to live instead of merely existing.
In short, Wellspring fares well. Erhardt fares better than he perhaps should.
Once upon a time, he would have moved on to the next town among countless towns, but he'd sworn no more oaths to break then. Now, idle hours licking at the edges of his days like spreading flames, he has his pick of desert roads to patrol with the same relentlessness reserved for the Sunlands' lizardmen.
You'll soon have these parts cleared down to even the last wanderweed, Lord Erhardt — have you no need of rest?
Need of sleep, the same as any other man, certainly, but sleeping and resting were always different things (no rest for the wicked holds true). And as the sun creeps toward the horizon, Erhardt thinks only of the stretch of sandy path before him, his bed far from his mind. ] |
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