[i]He felt light.

The saddle between his legs felt distant, like the ghost of a feeling, a memory of touch. The wind was whispering something in his ear that he couldn’t understand. He took in a breath and his nose filled with the damp soil and wheat fields. He opened his eyes and Vodevic was at a lazy amble up the road, pace bothered by no deadlines. He reached down and ran a hand down his flank, the touch still feeling light to his nerves, but Vodevic grunted in recognition of his rider’s familiar hand.

Looking farther ahead, he could see the destination. And of a sudden, the familiarity wrapped him like a blanket. Almost too tight. Suffocating. He bit his lip and forced down the lump in his throat. As he got closer to the farm, he found it harder and harder. Fear laid its hands on him, he’d been gone for so long. Would Nika recognize him? Would Ilda know what vagabond stood in her doorway? There was only one way to find out, Janus thought, and he’d never been afraid of whatever answers fate gave to his questions. When he passed the fence, he wrapped Vodevic’s reins around one of the posts, leaving him with a firm pat on his thick neck. Each step to the front door felt like walking against a strong tide.

Slower and slower, harder and harder, until he stood face to face with that door and his knuckles hovered over the wood of it. Afraid to touch it, afraid of who was inside more than any fear he’d had of any foe. He was a stranger here. For a moment, he thought to himself that he could turn around and just walk away. He swallowed, rapping his knuckles on the door and stepped back as if the door was going to give him a few hard knocks in turn. He heard the knob turn and the door creaked open. An olive-skinned face with black hair, braids laid over her shoulders and down her chest. Her green eyes looked into Janus’ own, and his lip quivered like a tiny babe’s. He opened his mouth to speak, but the only thing that came out was a choking, squeak of a sob that jolted his shoulders like punch.

The door opened and showed her in full. That face that he could only get in memories, that smile he longed for and could never have again. “Janus?”

He stepped forward and reached out to her to fold her in an embrace-[/i]

[hr]

He felt heavy.

And the aches seemed deep as his bones. He was sat in Bruno’s bed still, resting his broad back on the bed’s board. Most his cuts had stopped bleeding, but the bruises were still sore, especially the ones on his brow. The only difference between when he’d awoken in Bruno’s bed the first time and this time was he was alone. And a little bit of strength regained.

It weren’t the first time he’d had the dream. Just the time between the last and now had stretched further and further until tonight. It left him empty each time, but the pain had long ago blunted itself on the scar tissue it had left. He let go a sigh and chanced something, focusing on his palm and trying to block the rest of the world out. It had been a long time since he’d used the magicks, but he figured it was like riding a horse. Learn once, never forget. After a few long moments, the faintest glow caught the spark of his concentration and will. His bruises began to fade and shrink, albeit slowly, and ever so. Even with the dishearteningly slow process, he kept at it until the ones left were pale things.

The cuts had scabbed over or turned to new scars, the worst of them only shrinking. But that was all he could do before he felt himself grow faint and his mind fog over increasingly, burdened with summoning up magika it hadn’t for a long, long time. Perhaps he’d have to explain how his wounds had healed three days’ worth in a few minutes, but that wasn’t something he bothered himself with. There were more dire things to worry on, like the near-empty wine bottle still in his saddlebag. And his father’s sword. Bruno was right that a man didn’t need quite as many weapons as Janus had, but he’d trade them all for that old saber.

As he thought of what would’ve happened to Joy had he not rushed to her rescue, he knew the sword was a worthy sacrifice. Even if his father had chipped his love for him away over Janus’ younger years, they were replaced with a respect as Janus had taken up the man’s sword and witnessed the things his father did. He couldn’t blame the man for his ill temper and dark moods. Janus knew he’d had his fair share of them. That old bloodthirst had been bled from him in the two wars he’d lived through. Now shaking hands and nightmares were his reward. Cursed blades were a fairytale to many, he thought. Pick one up and live by it, you’ll realize every blade’s a curse.

He’d seen men and children entranced by them like siren-songs, thinking how war would win them a name in this world. Even Joy, peaceful Joy, had called the things he’d done and been through a neat little song and dance. Perhaps it was. A fool’s deed. But tonight, it wasn’t the machinations of man. It wasn’t a war or a feud. This was something more, and he’d almost died for it. He wondered why he still lived again, and remembered Bruno’s words. Talos wasn’t done with him. He’d been a priest once, of Stendarr, and the Welcomer of Heretics as Stendarr was he had no love for the abominations that he’d cut down this night.

All his life, Janus had known that evil wasn’t cackling demons in the far corners of the world, wringing their hands over the webs they weaved. Nor was it mad Emperors with world-ending delusions. It was the small men, the herd, ebbing and flowing and bleating. Their small wants and small reasons. Clawing for thrones made only of mud. Carelessness, ignorance, selfishness. And try as Janus might not to care, to leave this all to some hero out of the mists of legend like he’d told Joy…

A piece of Janus knew that if he took the easy way like he’d done all his life, it’d corner him when it was done with the rest of them that stood. He may not be able to rip that serpent from the sky and put him to the sword. But somewhere, hidden away with some ancient tome, was a small man with small wants and small reasons. Stendarr’s justice was patient.

But as Janus looked at his tattooed hands, quivering in the orange moonlight, he didn’t want to be the one to mete it out. Give it to some young fool with a sword. Janus’ day was done if you asked him. Done and over, he thought. Pleaded. A promise made to himself as he walked away from that last field he’d killed men by the dozens in. Nothing good ever came from him and a sword.