Vatis stepped over the corpse of a man he didn't think could die.

He was almost sad. There were only a handful of stories he knew that didn't end with death, and those unfortunate people usually begged for release at some point. Maybe that's how all stories should end.

Vatis sat between the inviting roots of a willow tree and retrieved his diligently-wrapped journal from his tattered pack. It was swathed in thin but pliable canvas held together by an emerald-colored bow. He placed the covered journal on his lap and closed his bag. Its frayed drawstring hung limply over a hole that wasn't supposed to be there but had persisted in its development from unnoticeable to coin-size.

What's his story?

Vatis carefully pulled his quill and ink from a compartment sewn to the front of his pack. The bright blue quill had lost most of its downy barbs from constant rubbing against a troublesome wart on his right middle finger, leaving a feather that looked more like a sparse pine tree than part of a blue jay's wing. He closed the compartment, tightened the silver latch, then pressed the buckle's tongue into another hole that wasn't there when he bought it. But as the thread in the extra compartment loosened, the strap was no longer tight enough with its original punch holes. So, Vatis improvised. He punched a new hole, a jagged thing that was more of a slit than a hole, but it did its job.

Vatis dipped his quill into his nearly depleted bottle of ink. I'll need to replenish this soon. Where's the next town? Basswood or Barnwood. I can never remember which one is west of the river.

He pressed a small dot onto his palm. It joined dozens of faintly washed dots marking the inside of his left hand. He couldn't afford to waste paper.

Where do I begin?

Gunnar had been everything a hero was supposed to be: loyal, brave, strong, and even intelligent. Well, more astute than most of the so-called heroes Vatis had encountered lately. His hands wanted to write, but his mind didn't have the same desire.

It's been two days. What am I missing? Vatis stood, scratched his head, and walked back to the corpse. He checked Gunnar's pockets for the third time. The back of his hand rubbed against the cold, tough skin. It felt almost like armor; unfortunately, Gunnar's actual armor hadn't been able to stop the arrow, whose broken shaft still stuck a few inches out of his chest. This wasn't how his story was supposed to end.

Vatis didn't want to interfere with the outcome of any story. He was an impartial observer, recording the deeds of Emre's finest heroes as well as a few villains. But sometimes the protagonist needs a little nudge in the right direction, he thought as he returned to his journal. The dark leather cover was now more black than its original hazel color. He flipped to the first page. It read:

Stories of Emre

Vatis cringed as he saw a faint black line in the bottom right-hand corner of the page. One too many cups of ale had led to a careless night of writing, tarnishing his beautiful, flowing script. He took pride in his penmanship. His fellow bards were always envious of his handwriting, but it had been a long time since he was active in the guild. He wasn't sure if they'd be envious of him now, not anymore.

Squirming, Vatis moved past his mistake and flipped through the book. He loved the way the paper felt against his thumb. He stopped skimming his notes of Gunnar when he came to a page detailing their encounter with a bear outside Numeria. Heroic, yes, but story-worthy, no.

The next page recounted Gunnar saving a drowning boy in the Cemil River. Now, that might be a start – a good introduction. Vatis continued his recollection of Gunnar, flipped to a blank page, and wrote:

Gunnar-The-Good

Killed by an errant arrow near Wayland. A decent man with a good heart.

That was all he could come up with. The rest would have to wait for another day. Vatis had followed Gunnar for half a year, and all he had was one line. Waste of time, he thought as he lifted his pen from the page, biting the end of his quill.

The problem with Gunnar's story is the stakes. He was a city guard without a city to guard. If only we made it to Barna, if he could have entered the King's service. He could have been something. I have no idea what that something is, but more than a single sentence in the Stories.

Vatis blew on the wet line of script, packed his writing supplies away, and like he did so often, he waited for ink to dry. A thin cloud shaped remarkably like a snake, open jaw and all, drifted through a pink sky. Two wired-tail swallows flew in intricate circles around the lone willow tree at the pond's edge. Now that Vatis had backed away from Gunnar, the birds swooped down to feast on an assortment of insects that often gathered near dead things. The larger swallow's unique wire-like tail drifted behind his blue body. It landed on a branch amongst the cascading leaves of the willow. The smaller swallow did not have its wired tail yet, but its brown head gave it away as a juvenile, not a female.

He dabbed the text with his finger – dry. Good. He carefully closed his journal, wrapped it like a mother swaddling a newborn baby, tied a perfect bow, and gently placed it in his pack. The sun was setting, and he did not like to be far from the road at night. I can persuade a thief to spare my life; bears and wolves aren't as gullible. Not that he had much luck with thieves, but he was still alive, and that had to count for something.

It was a three-day walk to Basswood or Barnwood; Vatis was pretty sure it was Basswood. He hadn't been there in decades. He hadn't been to a town in weeks. Gunnar had been trying to track down a missing girl in the marshlands northeast of Wayland. So, of course, this meant Vatis had also been wandering around marshes and bogs for the better half of a fortnight. They never found the girl. Though they might have if that hunter had not thought they were bandits. He was still impressed that Gunnar was able to dodge the next arrow, kill the hunter, and walk almost five miles with a broken arrow in his chest. He certainly was stubborn, Vatis thought, scratching the itchy stubble on his cheek as he remembered their final moments together.

"Is there really nothing when it ends? Just darkness?" Gunnar asked.

Vatis clutched Gunnar's shaking, blood-stained hand. "I don't know," he said honestly. "I certainly hope not."

Gunnar's teeth chattered. "Me too."

"It's just another adventure," Vatis said, leaning closer.

A smile crept through shivers and convulsions onto Gunnar's cracked lips. His dirty blond hair covered his cloudy eyes. "Vatis," Gunnar coughed. The words came slower. "I know..."

And then Gunnar died.

What did you know?

Vatis closed his fingers into a fist, kissed the back of his hand, and gently tapped Gunnar's forehead – a ceremonial gesture they used in Gunnar's hometown. Gunnar deserved a better death; he deserved to be remembered; he deserved to be buried, but Vatis didn't have anything to bury him with. His body would provide the ecosystem of the small pond with essential nutrients. There are worse ways to be put to rest.

"Goodbye, Gunnar. Good luck on your next adventure." Vatis said, hiking back to the road. He put the fading orange sun on his left shoulder and walked until he couldn't anymore.

Time to find a new story.

Embers smoldered in his makeshift campfire, thrown together seconds before exhaustion overcame him. Exhaustion was Vatis's only constant companion, the one thing he could count on as the sun set on Emre each night. He didn't know where he would sleep. He didn't know what he would eat. He didn't know whose story he would chase, but Vatis knew when the bitter dark of night arrived – he would be exhausted. As far as company went, exhaustion wasn't that bad. It was undoubtedly better than boredom.

It had been three full days of hard walking, no rest, no writing, and no stories. A deep, sharp pain suddenly accompanied his exhaustion as he rolled onto his back. He grasped at the pain unsuccessfully. His hand was unable to provide the slightest relief as his fingertips teased at a reprieve. He stretched further, almost providing the necessary counter-pressure, but before he could, a sharper pain coursed through his shoulder, sending him back onto his stomach. Perhaps it was a stroke of luck. At least the pain in his shoulder was consolable. His arms trembled as he pushed himself upright.

Vatis stretched gingerly, careful not to extend too far. He rubbed his aching shoulder and brushed the dust from his once-white shirt—somewhere birds sang their morning song. Vatis whistled back, echoing their tune flawlessly. He could identify birds by their sweet, chirping melodies. The high-pitched, bouncy song surrounding him, like a cheerful laugh mocking his pain, could be none other than the common wren. Their songs could be heard throughout Emre and woke him pleasantly on many occasions.

An hour later, the road transitioned from barely recognizable, trampled-down grass to a remarkably well-kept dirt path, which meant only one thing: he was getting close to civilization and opportunity. It was time to act. It was time to become Vatis-of-the-Road, the jovial, carefree bard whose antics teetered dangerously close to annoyance on many occasions. Of the characters he played, Vatis-of-the-Road was his favorite. For a day, he could forget about his troubles and simply meet new people and tell stories. What else would a traveling bard want?

An arrow-shaped sign reading Basswood was affixed crookedly to a rotting lamppost. One of the wrens landed atop the swaying lantern that looked about one bird away from falling. Vatis kicked dirt into the air and forced himself to smile. He pushed thoughts of Gunnar's death to the back of his mind like an experienced executioner. The journey had taken its toll on him, and he had difficulty getting into character. Come on, Vatis thought, rubbing his temples. He could feel the oil on his hair and skin. I need a bath. Vatis continued various tricks he had to get in character. He slapped his right cheek three times; that didn't work. He opened his eyes wide like his eyelids would burn his retinas if he allowed them to close; that didn't work. Finally, when everything else failed, Vatis sang:

Running through the garden 
Skipping by the trees
Where is she hiding?
Where could she be?
Is she in the window?
Is she in the hall?
Ah!
There! In a bright blue dress
Coming for us all

Hopping in the castle
Twirling through the hall
Where is she hiding?
Where could she be?
Is she in the kitchen?
Is she in the wall?
Ah!
There! In a dark red dress
Hunting for us all

Running through the stable
Hiding in a stall
Where is she hiding?
Where could she be?
Where could she be?
Where could she be?

Ah!

Vatis danced in coordination with the silly melody children sang while playing hide-and-seek. It worked. He was Vatis-of-the-Road. His thighs and calves burned as he crested a long hill, but when he reached the top, he continued his jig in rhythm with the tune.