Orme never thought he'd be a good parent. Even then, watching his kid training (and failing) to use a sword, he didn’t feel what he thought one was supposed to feel. No tendrils of tenderness. No fond memories taking him back to a blessed past. Only laughter.

He thought that wasn’t very good parenting, and blamed himself once more. “You're no good, Orme,” he thought. “No wonder they all call you by your name.”

The training session ended, and it was time to get back on the road.

They walked in silence and in the fog for a few hours, heading North as Wren has suggested. Nothing happened. There were trees here and there, and Orme counted them to try and stay awake. At 107, he was starting to feel drowsy and about to ask for a halt when they stumbled upon an abandoned campsite.

There were still warm ashes in the firepit and a pair of shoes was abandoned next to it. 

“Something happened here, and not too long ago,” Iyona pointed out. 

“We should probably leave before whatever scared them comes back,” Wren said.

Orme smiled. The kid had so much to learn. “They only just passed by, Wren. It's unlikely they'll return for a while, if they do at all. They took all they wanted. The tents are gone and I doubt whoever was here first had time to get them before fleeing.”

Wren looked at him in shock. Obviously they hadn’t thought of that.

“Orme's right,” Iyona added. “They probably only left the shoes because they weren't the right size. I vote we camp here for the night. It might be early but that's still our safest bet. Besides, that means more time to train.”

Wren groaned. They set up camp.

The boots were better than Orme’s, and fitted him. He took them.

Nothing big happened for the next few days. They walked and ate and slept, talked little and trained for the sword together. Orme had decided that Wren could learn better with an opponent. So far, it wasn't working. Still, it brought them both just that little bit closer. That was nice, as far as Orme was concerned. Wren didn’t see it that way, but then they really didn’t like training.

One morning they were awakened by blood curling screams of horror and pain.

Orme was sleeping with his shirt and trousers on, as usual.  He grabbed his sword and got out of his tent as fast as he could. His old bones slowed him down, but only a little. 

What he saw made him stop with his eyes wide open and his mouth taking the same path.

They were right on the edge of a battle.

Fae and humans were going at it with all their might, and the fight was slowly coming closer to them.

They had to leave. At once.

Orme shouted for the others to gather everything they could and run. He grabbed his tent, hastily put all that had spilled back in his backpack, and soon enough they were all running as fast as their legs would carry them.

Wren, with their youth and their long legs, were first. Iyona followed. Orme was last and happy to be. He could guard their backs.

They entered a forest, and the noise from the battle lessened. They were successfully getting away.

Now all they had to do was not lose each other.

The forest was foggy, just like everywhere else on Kildama. That fog never seemed to lift. The trees weren’t so big, but they seemed sturdy and were close to each other. Close enough it was hard to find a path in between them.

After about an hour of running over slippery leaves and cracking twigs, Orme asked for a halt. He was out of breath and his knees were asking for a break. Loudly enough the others could hear it.

They made a quick camp in a small clearing. There was a little river running nearby. Orme asked Iyona to fetch him some water. Thankfully, she didn’t question it.

While she was gone Orme looked over to Wren. They seemed as worn out as he was.

As an archeologist, they mostly studied old papers and scrolls, safe within the confines of a library or the University. They never had to run.

Granted, a year on the road had done wonders for their cardio and overall shape, but they still had the reflexes of a bunny. They jumped in fear at the first noise, stomped their foot at the first aggravation, ran for their lives when faced with a sword. 

Orme was finally starting to understand all of that.

His child wasn't like him at all. And yet, they had come. Why? He would probably never know, and they wouldn’t tell. All they said was “it's better to be in company when roaming a war ravaged land”.

“So,” Orme started. HE didn’t know what to say. “How are you doing?” 

Wren looked at him like he was insane. “As good as possible considering what just happened, I suppose. You?” They both definitely had to work on their conversation skills.

“Same, I guess. Tired after all that running. I'm getting old.”

Silence was his answer.

But it was true, Orme was getting old. All of a sudden the weight of his years crushed him. His shoulders dropped, and Wren raised an eyebrow. Orme grunted and turned his back to them. HE didn’t want them to see how much it hurt.

“How about we start cooking dinner while we wait?” 

Wren silently set up a campfire and rummaged in the packs for some lentils. That would be all they had to eat that night. Again.