With a heavy heart, Malachi swallowed. The food, so good moments before, tasted like ashes on his tongue. And it wasn't the booze that roiled his guts. He kept a hold of himself, but it took a lot of strength—almost everything he had. While he could never boast that he knew a lot, Malachi kept track of the year in order to be aware of people's ages, and on this fateful day he stood on an earth three hundred years older than he'd seen it last.

A few still moments later, Malachi gave the bartender a weary smile. “Yeah, sounds great. If I'm still 'round, I'll be 'ere.” Fishing some coinage out of his pouch, he recalled how much Byron's silver piece astounded the young village guards. It'd been why he opted for large quantities of the establishment's priciest fare. Placing a single silver on the counter, he explained, “For this time, next time, the information, and this. Cheers.” So saying, he swiped the half-filled tankard itself, trusting in his payment to cover its cost, and headed toward the door. “Be seein' ya.” With a wave, he stepped outside.

The huge man got one step before collapsing against the side of the building. Suppressed emotion washed over him like a crashing time. “Three...hundred...” he wheezed, cackling at the insanity of it. And to think he'd been worried about his family getting older. No, no, no. His wife and daughter were dead. Long dead. He'd be lucky if a single person drawing breath today knew had ever heard his name. Every friend he'd ever had was history, and so were their great grandchildren, from the kindly villagers to the royalty of his homeland. Hell, Sydane itself might have been conquered, reduced to rubble, or swallowed by the sea during those centuries. Delirious, Malachi looked around. Things looked so similar, but this wasn't his world. It wasn't his land, nor his sky. He buried his face in his hands. How had he let this happen!?