Gavrael looked over the selection of meats Quintus had set before him and wondered what poor animal was sacrificed so they could eat. It seemed to be a decent sized one, judging by the sheer amount of food. They had nothing else to eat it with. Bugs had taken the flour and rice, and mold had taken almost everything else. Still, fresh meat was better than the hot brine they’d been eating at the abandoned city.

“We’re going to eat some, cure some and dry some,” Quintus said as he sorted through the spices. “Hand me that skewer, will you?”

Gavrael handed him the metal rod, then turned to get the fire going. He’d found a hunk of flint on the shelf, but nothing to strike it with.

“Here.” Quintus pulled a dagger from his belt and held it out, hilt first. Traces of blood clung to the blade around the hilt. “Shave off a bit into the dry tinder first, then strike it.”

He nodded and squatted by the wood and dry tinder. His reflection stared back at him from the side of the blade—pallid skin and dark bruising around his eyes. He angled the blade away and scraped a pile of shavings onto the tinder. 

The action felt as natural to him as getting dressed, yet he had no recollection of ever doing it. He drew his hand back and struck the flint with all the strength he could muster. Sparks flew into the tinder, and he blew on them until they caught. The fire spread over the leaves and twigs and engulfed the logs, the warmth licking at his face. The wind picked up outside, roaring through the trees and shaking the wind chimes, and rain beat against the waypoint.

“We should get those barrels outside to catch the rainwater,” Quintus said.

The words were muffled and distorted, like Quintus was in another room. Gavrael’s attention was on the patter of the rain against the wood and the firelight dancing on the ceiling. The curved surface of the wood flattened and darkened from a rosy tan to a deep brown. The warm glow of the fire transformed into a mad flicker, as though someone was waving a torch around. 

And suddenly Gavrael wasn’t squatting by the fire in the waypoint, but sitting at a table in a cramped, stuffy room. A bed and the table and chair he occupied were its only furnishings, aside from a few wooden cabinets on the walls. The faintest hint of lavender, a scent that warmed Gavrael’s chest. 

Instead of flint and a dagger, he held a sheet of parchment with a single word written on it: Guards. To his left, a porthole afforded a view of black seas, rising and falling under sheets of heavy rain. Lightning coiled through the clouds and illuminated the mountain range in the distance. 

A thumping sound, like boots stomping against wood, sounded to his right, just beyond the exit. It echoed throughout the room, reverberated off his bones. His heart slammed against his ribs, roared in his ears and his chest burned, as though he’d sucked in a lungful of saltwater. 

“Gavrael!”

His breath came in rough hitches, like he was being strangled, and his head spun. He tried to get up, to run, but his body was frozen in place. The footsteps drew closer, just outside the door. The knob jiggled, the click clack of the metal made his hands shake.

“Gavrael!”

Gavrael startled, and the room went black. Firelight streamed in little by little, along with the sounds of rain, wind, and a crackling fire. The lavender scent was eclipsed by roasting meat and damp earth. A blurry figure hovered over him and he had to blink several times before it snapped into focus. 

“Quintus?” He barely recognized his own voice with how much it shook.

“Welcome back,” Quintus said. 

Gavrael tried to get up, but a heavy weight across his midsection held him and place, and his arms felt as though they were nailed to the floor. Only then he realised Quintus was straddling him and held his hands pinned over his head. Heat crept up his neck and settled on his face. “I-I-I. Quintus, is there any reason you’re on top of me?”

“Well…” Quintus arched a brow and gave him that devilish smile again. “You almost dove headlong into the fire, so I dragged you over to the couch. Then you flung yourself off of it and tried to fight me.” He brought his face close enough for Gavrael to smell the musk of the outdoors on his skin. “I’m gonna let you go now. Take it slow.”

Gavrael managed a jerky nod. Quintus released his wrists first, then rolled off him and stood in one fluid motion.

“I…” Gavrael rubbed his face and sat up. His head spun, and he grabbed onto the couch for stability. “I think I remembered something?”

Quintus’ eyebrows shot up. “Your name?”

He shook his head. “No, I don’t believe it’s anything of use.”

“Anything is better than the whole lot of nothing we know now.” Quintus crossed back to the kitchenette and poked at the skewed meat sitting over the fire. “You can tell me whenever you’re ready.”

Gavrael put his back against the couch and leaned his head against the cushions. “I was in a cabin, I guess. In a boat. I could see outside and it was raining. The water was rough. I could see mountains in the distance. And I had this paper in my hand and there was this noise like someone was stomping around.”

“Alright, alright, slow down,” Quintus cut in. “The parchment, was there anything written on it?”

“Yes. It said: Guards.” He breathed a sigh through his nose. “I told you this information was useless.”

Quintus shook his head. “No, it’s not. What about the stomping? Was there someone in the room with you?”

“I’m not sure, but…” Gavrael rubbed the back of his neck. “When I heard the stomping, it terrified me, and I’m not sure why.”

“Alright,” Quintus said, not taking his attention off the meat. “I suppose we gave glean a few things. You were on a boat on the gulf and the weather was rough. Perhaps it capsized, and you washed up on the beach. I suppose, maybe you have guards, which means you’re someone important. So there could very well be people looking for you.”

“Or maybe I was a guard.”

Quintus laughed, the kind of deep hearty sound that came from the gut. “Your hands are as soft and supple as a baby’s ass. I’m afraid you weren’t swinging any swords save for the one between your legs.”

Gavrael’s face burned. “Or perhaps I take good care of my skin.”

“I’m just teasing you, Gav, trying to lighten the mood here. Was there anything else you remembered?”

He shook his head.

“Well, here’s an idea,” Quintus said as he slowly turned the meat over the flames. “Take one of those journals we brought from the abandoned city and write down everything you remember. Everything you saw, everything you heard, everything you felt. Consider it your memory journal.”

Gavrael nodded. “A novel idea.” He dug through his bag for a journal and a thin stick of charcoal, then sat near the fire to write his memories. His hand flew across the page, words streaming from his mind and flowing down to his fingertips. In no time, he’d filled two pages with brain vomit, and most of the residual fear and tension from his memory had melted away. 

He looked up at Quintus, who hummed as he tended the food. The smooth baritone of his voice mixed with the patter of rain and the crackle of fire in a mock symphony. The firelight danced over his golden skin and in the depths of his dark eyes. He was just as much a mystery to Gavrael as well… himself.

Gavrael flipped to the last page in the journal and headed it: Quintus Evander Sarahi, then wrote everything he knew. Necromancer, strong, beautiful voice. Beautiful face. He scratched that one out. Horrid and vulgar sense of humor and… kind. 

I’m no hero, he’d said, but Gavrael begged to differ. Quintus could’ve left him on the beach for the tide to carry him, could’ve abandoned him in the old city, could’ve shoved a map in his hands and sent him off on his own, could’ve left him to tackle his memory troubles on his own. 

And yet. Here they were. Strangers who seemed more like friends.