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The city feels on edge now, or perhaps it’s all in Nero’s head.
He breathes in the morning air. He doesn’t have the gift of prophecy, doesn’t know how to use magic to see the future. This feeling is born from an instinct he’s crafted over the years, born from the necessity of watching someone else’s back. When you have to determine the exact moment when a situation is no longer under control and you should retreat, you become all-too aware of your surroundings, and you know that the city is no longer as safe as it was yesterday.
It’s probably not dangerous either, at least not for someone like him. And if the worst were to come, it’d be easy for him to fight, or to run away. But there is something wrong, and the eyes he meets are tainted with worry.
Well, that’s not his business—number one rule of living in the City of Rain, you just don’t stick your nose where it doesn’t belong.
Still, it’s hard for him to be entirely relaxed. But then, again, when was the last time Nero’s been so carefree his body wasn’t tense at all?
He doesn’t remember. There are a lot of things that refuse to leave his mind, but that, he can’t remember.
☾
“Have you heard about it, owner? They say there’s a wizard in town.”
Nero’s hand tenses over the ladle.
The first thing that crosses his mind is a face—black hair laced with white, ardent mauve eyes and a self-assured smile, convincing enough for you to believe you could conquer the whole world by his side.
Nero doesn’t think about himself, even though he’s a wizard, even though he lives in town.
“Really?” he replies, pretending that he only freezes because of the surprise, not because magic is a part of his very soul and his peaceful days will only last as long as he keeps his secret. “These bastards are good at hidin’ though. How do we know it’s a wizard?”
“Oh, he’s not hiding himself at all,” the customer says. The woman, one of Nero’s regulars, talks a little more than the average Eastern citizen, which doesn’t mean she’s that talkative. She doesn’t try to pry, although she loves to tell Nero about all the rumours going around. She just likes to fill the silence with something, even if it’s non-significant stories about her life or her neighbours’. “He asked several people if he could take their memories. How can he not be a wizard?”
Her voice is wary as she explains herself. She’s seemed to be on edge ever since she entered the restaurant, but it’s no wonder why. Still, Nero feels more relieved than he should be.
A wizard who asks for memories—that can’t be him, of course.
“Yeah, that’s weird. What would he do with all these memories?” Nero comments as he carefully pours the pumpkin soup she asked for into a porcelain bowl. As a wizard, you can live a good life in this country so long as you pretend to be human. This man is either a fool or doesn’t know how things work in Eastern country.
The woman sighs. “Right? That sounds way too suspicious…. Who knows if he doesn’t take them by force? You know, maybe he just jumps on you and tears your fondest memory from your heart, and you’ll lose your will to live!”
Nero forces himself to chuckle, mostly to reassure her. “C’mon, that sounds a little too extreme.”
The pitter-patter of raindrops against the windows forms a pleasant background noise, one Nero likes to listen to when he’s alone or in the company of patrons who like talking even less than he does. Rain-free days, in this city, are an exception and Nero doesn’t remember the last time the weather was nice. Now, though, the rain feels a little ominous, a little heavier than it should.
“Besides,” he adds, “why would he ask for them if he could just steal them? That sounds kinda counterproductive.”
“Who knows how these wizards work,” the woman whispers, and Nero can’t very well contradict her—he’s lived for centuries now, yet there are still so many things he doesn’t understand about magic. Perhaps in a thousand years, or two, if he’s still alive, he’ll be knowledgeable enough to decipher some of its mysteries. It’s a lot easier to just accept that things are the way they are, though. “But I guess memories are precious, right? I wouldn’t want to give them away to a stranger.”
Nero stills, his smile frozen on his lips. It should be easy to say, me neither, I wouldn’t, but the words refuse to leave his throat.
He settles for something else—for a half-truth he can almost believe in, most of the time. “Memories make us who we are.”
“Yes, that’s it!” The patron grabs her spoon and dips it into the steaming soup. “Well, he doesn’t do anything to those who say no, at least. I just hope he’ll leave town soon.”
Nero nods. The presence of another wizard isn’t good news for him, regardless of what they want.
☾
Nights like these always feel different—nights when Nero sits alone in his restaurant, with the faint shine of the moon seeping through the interstice between the curtains as his only patron and a heavy silence weighing over his chest.
He breathes in the lukewarm night, takes in the mingled smell of cardamom and pepper and lamb left behind by the evening stew. It’s a familiar, comforting smell, and if he can clean everything up—he can stow away the dishes and the pots, he can scrub the tables spotless and put each chair back in its place— there’s no way he can clean an odour. Nero likes the way it lingers in the air, though. It makes him feel slightly less alone.
With time, Nero learnt that things often leave traces of their existence behind. Some of them can be erased; others remain. A darker stain on the tablecloth, the twisted tine of a fork, the burnt mark on the counter, or a forlorn memory—all of these are small reminders of what happened in the past. Eventually, most traces disappear—for almost nothing is immutable in this world, not even Nero’s own life.
So the smell of tonight’s dinner will fade, too, will be replaced by other dinners, and so on and so forth.
The same goes for the patrons of the restaurant. They’re all humans—or, at least, pretend to be—and while the passing of time will take a discreet but noticeable toll on their body, grey hair and wrinkles and hunched back, it won’t affect him the same way. So he’ll have to leave before they realise who he truly is. He’ll move his business to another place, rebuilding everything from scratches. Still, he won’t be able to erase all physical traces of his existence, but the memory of the blue-haired chef whose food tastes like home will fade too, will die alongside its owners.
At some point, all the things that Nero leaves behind each time he moves will become meaningless.
As he sits alone, he repeats to himself, this is what I wished for. The cycle of these peaceful days, over and over; the stability achieved by the price of a small sacrifice every few decades; the certainty that he’ll wake up to a day that looks quite like the others—with nothing but a small difference to make it a unique day.
And the everlasting burden of memories he has no control over, the traces imprinted on his soul by another man, at another time. Like a grand fire that can’t be extinguished, they keep burning inside.
So if he were to meet this wizard who collects memories, if he were offered a deal—his peace of mind at the price of his own identity, because that’s what altering one’s memories means, he’d be cutting a part of himself and giving it away—would he agree?
☾
Contrary to what Nero expected, the rumours about the wizard gathering memories die down pretty fast. Other patrons mention his presence in town for two days, and on the third one it’s as though he no longer exists. Nero wonders if he managed to erase the memories of his existence in pretty much all of humans’ minds. It’s more likely that he left town already, or he discovered it was better to keep a low profile in the City of Rain.
Nero’s routine goes on, unaltered: he buys groceries, he cooks food, he serves meals, he cleans the dishes; then, rinse and repeat. The woman who told him about the wizard first finally relaxes. She talks about kids being chased from the streets by a sudden rain shower, about a neighbour of hers who left their pie in the oven for so long the whole block thought there was a fire; she tells so many insignificant stories, in which nobody risks their life and nobody worries about the ghosts of the past. Nero listens with fondness.
Days later, he sets out for the market in the early morning, an ordinary adventure with no stakes other than finding the proper vegetables for noon’s velouté. He’s now familiar with the patterns of the streets, bathed in the soft light of the timid sun; he knows which shortcut to take, which street to avoid if he doesn’t want to meet too many people. Nero, so tired of all expectations, of being the man who can’t be enough, enjoys these quiet walks. The North was too harsh for him; the East feels like a sanctuary, as long as he keeps his head low and his mouth shut—something easy for a guilt-ridden soul.
Nero isn’t one to haggle, and neither are the people of this country—bargaining isn’t forbidden per se, but it’s nosy, and nosy things don’t really find their place in the City of Rain. So, even if the prices have raised a little, Nero just pays without a word. Money isn’t an issue for him; he’s not a chef because he wants to be rich. It was just his fleeting dream, a wish he didn’t dare to express aloud back in the day, because he valued a humble life over riches and thrills.
He bids farewell to the vendors and starts to walk home, through the drizzle-filled alleyways. There aren’t a lot of clouds; Nero raises his eyes, in hopes of seeing a rainbow. He could very well create one, if he wished. However, there’s wonder in the works of nature, so he likes hoping for one, just like a human does.
He’s close to his home when he hears a rale. Nero turns his head, trying to determine where the noise comes from.
A man is lying in an alley on his left, his jerky breathing breaking the serenity of the morning.
For a quick second, Nero thinks of walking away.
Then an image flashes in his mind—he sees a boy with blue hair and golden eyes sitting on a throne of dust and snow, looking at the hand stretched out before him, a hand with a thin cut running across the palm, as though it would bite him.
The Eastern laws probably don’t forbid you from helping a stranger, even if it’s the very first time you lay your eyes on them (at least, Nero doesn’t think it’s the case), and if anyone notices Nero turns a blind eye to a person in need, he might be reported to the authorities as suspicious. If he does help them, then he can still be deemed suspicious if he isn’t doing it the right way. This country is a great place if you want to hide, but it soon becomes a pain once you’re faced with that kind of dilemma.
The man who used to stand in Brad’s shadow is too honourable to look the other way, though, even if he no longer deserves this place.
So Nero kneels and gently shakes the man’s shoulder. “Hey, ya alright?” The man’s face stirs but he doesn’t wake up. From up close, he looks quite young—the way wizards do, with this ageless youth that could be of a man in his twenties or his forties. His complexion is a little too pale, his clothes float around his body as if they were too big. His silver hair is drenched with rain.
The wisest thing to do would be to call the authorities for help. The thing is, Nero doesn’t exactly like to be involved with people who are supposed to protect the citizens from guys like him—he’s no longer a bandit, he swears it’s behind him, yet he can’t let go of his innate defiance, of the feeling that they’d see right through him.
The easiest thing to do would be to use his magic to get the man elsewhere. All it’d take is a pair of eyes looking in their direction at the wrong moment for his secret to be outed, so it’s not really a good option either.
Nero sighs. “Man, I really should leave ya alone…” Yet he carefully puts the man’s arms over his shoulders and carries him on his back. He may be a bandit, a traitor, a man with a rotten heart, but there’s still a flicker of generosity in his heart.
It won’t be enough for salvation; it’s nothing but a small drop of water falling in the ocean, insignificant. Still, Nero walks home, ignoring how heavy the man weighs on his shoulders: it can’t be as heavy as his own sins, after all.
☾
Nero waits until the man is properly lying on his bed until he gives him some sugar. This isn’t the only way to heal someone but Nero isn’t confident in his magic to just share it with a man who might be a human. The man doesn’t wake, so he still goes back to his own routine—he has lunch to prepare.
Nero doesn’t have many customers at noon on weekdays, just enough for a man who works alone to deal with. A family he’s never seen before decides to eat out at his place after he tells them that yes, the two children talking as much as they want wouldn’t be a problem. Nero doesn’t need the silence, he needs the mystery. So long as he’s not the one talking, he doesn’t mind if his restaurant is filled with chatter and laughter.
The patrons have long left and Nero is alone in his kitchen, humming to himself as he cleans the plates (without magic, because it’s more relaxing for him that way) when he hears the sound of a door opening upstairs, followed by steps going down the stairs. Nero tenses. He’s the one who got himself into this situation, so he’s not allowed to complain.
“Come here,” he calls, and a couple of seconds later the man pushes the door of the kitchen open.
The stranger’s a lot less pale now, although his baggy clothes and sunken cheeks always make him look sickly. He looks at Nero with cautious crimson eyes, as though trying to judge if he’s a threat.
Nero offers him a gentle smile, even though he doesn’t feel as comfortable as he seems. He doesn’t like having a stranger in his place, especially in his kitchen; it’s his safe place, where he can allow himself to be. “Afternoon, sleepin’ beauty. Feelin’ better already?”
The man nods bashfully, looks around. “Where am I?”
“In my restaurant. I’m a chef. Found ya passed out in the street, so I brought you here.” Nero then points to the two basins he uses to wash dishes. “Wanna help?”
The proposition is only a way for Nero to get into a more comfortable situation. If he could, he’d tell him to leave the kitchen, but he doesn’t think you can chase the person you’ve just saved away from your home.
The man, baffled, nods slowly. Nero silently throws him a tea towel and plunges his hands back into the water. For a couple of minutes, neither of them talk. Nero enjoys it. The man’s movements are clumsy—they remind Nero of the way Brad would grab the plate with his fingertips, as if afraid to touch it, awkwardly wiping it.
It only happened once, though, and Nero threw the boss away from his kitchen before he dropped and broke one of the plates—not that Brad minded, the kitchen had always been Nero’s territory after all.
“Are you the wizard my patrons told me ‘bout?” Nero finally breaks the silence.
The man freezes. “You’re one too, aren’t you?”
Nero nods—there’s no use hiding it, especially when his kitchen does have a couple of magical items. A human might not notice them, but a wizard would. “You’re the first who caught on here. Ya better not say anything, though. I don’t like bein’ betrayed.”
His voice is harsh and cold, like the edge of a poisoned blade. His own words make him feel sick. I don’t like bein’ betrayed—as if he had any right to say it.
The other wizard chuckles. “Don’t worry. I learnt that it’s best not to say you’re a wizard the hard way.”
“Oh? Is that why I found you passed out in the middle of the street?”
From the corner of his eye, Nero sees that the man’s face reddens. “Ah, no, I just… Ran into a small problem with a spell.”
The hearsay might have died down so fast for another reason, then. The man must have had some problems with the authorities, although it probably wasn’t more than a small hassle to him. Wizards don’t really care about human laws, unless they want to blend in.
Nero hands him a clean plate. “What kind of problem?”
The man takes the plate with a sigh. “The kind that almost costs your life if you’re not careful enough.”
Nero nods but doesn’t say anything else. He’s had enough of wizards who don’t take proper care of their life and are ready to throw it away for their selfish purposes. Unfortunately, he seems to attract this kind of people the most.
After a while, they’re done with the dishes and Nero takes off his apron. The silence that, until now, felt comfortable, starts to grow thick. He’s not used to having someone else in the kitchen. Even back in the day, there was only one person brave enough to stand in Nero’s territory, a person who never offered his help yet would always fill the air with his grandiose dreams.
He doesn’t face the wizard as he racks his brains for an icebreaker.
In the end, it’s the other man who finds it. “Say, Mister…”
“Nero.” He doesn’t ask for the other man’s name. He doesn’t want to know. It’s easier to forget about a nameless person.
“Mister Nero. Is there, perhaps, a memory you’d like to part with?”
Nero turns around. The man is standing with his arms crossed a few steps away, his pale face bathed in the light of the afternoon sun. There’s caution in his eyes, as though he expects rejection.
A couple of memories come to Nero’s mind. The many sights of Brad’s wounded body, of the scars he refuses to heal with magic. The anxiety settled in his gut as he watches over the first rays of daybreak and the beginning of a new raid. The many voices of the Iestrum carrying these words carefully thrown at him—what a stupid dream, Nero—to the four corners of the Cavern of Time.
“Nope,” Nero lies.
The disappointment he reads on the man’s face makes his stomach churn. It’s not like he’s entirely sure he doesn’t want to get rid of them yet. In fact, he doesn’t understand why he hasn’t said yes.
“Of course you wouldn’t,” the wizard says. “You must have a peaceful life, right?”
Nero frowns. A peaceful life? He sure has one. He owns his restaurant, he gets along well with his patrons (according to Eastern Country’s standards), he doesn’t have to worry about anything except keeping the fact that he’s a wizard a secret (and perhaps coming up with new meal ideas, because as a cook he can’t always serve the same food to the same patrons). In a way, this is exactly the life he wanted.
And yet it feels hollow.
“Well, if you know someone who might be interested and isn’t afraid of a wizard, please tell me. I plan to stay in the city for the next two weeks.”
Nero laughs—less because he finds it funny, and more to break through the tension that makes it hard to breathe. “Yeah, no, I wouldn’t even tell my patrons I’m a wizard, sorry.”
“It’s fine. I’m already grateful you saved me.” And, just like that, the atmosphere shifts again. The wizard takes a few steps towards the door; Nero feels relieved. “I’ll take my leave now. It was nice to see you, Mister Nero.”
Nero stares.
“Feel free to come back,” he finally says.
He hopes the other wizard won’t.
☾
Now that he thinks about it, he did have a conversation about memories with Brad, a long time ago.
It happened the night after a raid; the men had all retreated to the spaces that served as their bedrooms, spaces altered with magic to give them some privacy. Nero hadn’t, though. He was staying with Brad, as he often did ever since he became his right-hand man, although they were less talking about the raid itself and more enjoying each other’s company. They were friends, companions, perhaps even soulmates.
From the caves, you could see neither the moon nor the stars, yet the silence that filled the air made it feel like night nonetheless. Even the Iestrum were quiet, most likely sleeping.
Nero felt too awake to go back to the part of the caves he had claimed for himself. He rarely slept the night after a raid, unable to beat the frantic beating of his heart and the whirlwind of his thoughts. He couldn’t stay alone. If he did, he’d think about all the moments things could’ve gone south, all the moments Brad’s life was dangling like a pendulum in front of his eyes, held by a thread so thin it could break at any moment. What kept him awake wasn’t the excitement of having gained many riches at the risk of his life, it was the dread of having almost lost Brad once again.
Brad was sitting in his armchair, a glass of a wine they’ve snatched during the raid—a grand cru from Western Country, one of Brad’s favourites—in the hand, two dice in the other.
They weren’t like regular dice: they were made of an iridescent crystal, with symbols engraved on each face instead of dots. It was the first time Nero laid his eyes on such objects, but Brad had recognized them right away. He’d put them in his pocket, winking to Nero before he’d moved on to the next treasure laying before him. Nero, despite his curiosity, said nothing.
“See, Nero, these things,” Brad said, “can actually store six of your memories.”
Nero remembers blinking. “For real?”
Nero was even less knowledgeable about magical artefacts at the time. He could tell there was magic in this object, but he couldn’t really guess what it could do. He lacked the imagination to do so.
“Yeah. I found one before you joined. Gave it to one of the guys. He put the day of our encounter there.” Brad chuckled, but not out of mockery; this was his way of showing he was happy to be liked by his subordinate.
Nero lowered his eyes to the dices. “What happens to the memories?”
“Well, if you roll the dice, it’ll show the memory stored in the face you rolled,” Bradley explained. “Looks like an illusion, it’s kinda pretty.”
Nero’s chest tightened when he thought about having a memory of his trapped in a piece of crystal—a memory that could outlive him, that could be seen by anyone. It was the last thing he wanted to do: to leave a trace of himself behind. Nero wasn’t that afraid of dying because he knew he’d turn into a nondescript stone, and only his power would remain. The Chef of Blood would hopefully be forgotten with time.
On the other hand, Brad probably liked the idea a lot. He was always thinking of his legacy, and Nero didn’t like the way he sometimes looked at Nero as though he was thinking of entrusting his inheritance to him.
“I’ll give ya one, if ya want,” Brad offered.
Nero stared at him. He tried to say no. He said no to so many things after all, not that it actually mattered. Nero couldn’t win; not when Brad was the one who decided, in the hand, and as long as his words were law, Nero could just follow along to make sure he wouldn’t die. Because if his own death didn’t scare him, the idea of Brad dying was so terrifying he was ready to do anything to prevent it.
(At the time, he didn’t know what anything meant. Didn’t know that it was literally everything, even sacrificing the one thing that gave him the pride to look up.)
“How about we both fill the dice and give it to the other?” he suggested.
Brad’s eyes lit up at the suggestion. “Oh, so I keep your memories and you keep mine? Good idea, Nero!”
Nero’s smile was faint. This was the only way he could think of to keep a part of Brad with him if the worst were to come—he couldn’t say it aloud, could he?
Brad then showed him how to use the dice. He was quick to fill his; he entrusted it to Nero when he was done, and Nero watched the memories when he was alone.
The dice’s faces had all taken different colours and were glowing in the dark. When Nero rolled for the first time, it landed on light blue. An illusion started to form right over the face: a snowy landscape with a frozen lake, and Nero standing right in front of him, his back turned, his hair swaying in the wind.
All of Brad’s memories were related to Nero. The right-hand man could see himself featured in various scenes, in various situations, and every time he was looking in Brad’s direction, there was a soft glow on his face, as though Brad’s eyes were setting him apart from the rest of the world. His smile was brighter than the reflection of the light over the snow. His beauty was ethereal, melancholic; heart-clutching despite all the small cuts covering his face and the dissatisfied curve of his lips.
Nero stayed still in the dark for a long time after he watched the last memory, chilled to the bone.
His own dice remained clear. Nero was the one who suggested they share memories, but he couldn’t think of one he wanted to give to Brad.
How would the other look in his eyes? What would Brad think if the pain drowned out every other feeling and all he could perceive was an abyss, like a gaping hole in Nero’s chest, an absence rather than an actual emotion?
That’s why Nero filled his own dice with any of his memories. He was too afraid of his own heart to do so.
☾
Back in the day, Nero found comfort in the roar of thunders.
The low rumbling growing stronger as the storm drew closer was, to him, a form of inoffensive danger, a catastrophe he didn’t have to fear. Bradley, too, didn’t fear the elements. However, he was aware of his underlings’ safety, so during storms and blizzards he made sure they all stayed in the caves they picked as their lair. To Nero, bad weather offered him a small moment of respite, the opportunity to catch his breath and no longer think about whether Bradley was rising from sleep for the last time of his existence.
The day he made his decision—the day he realised that he had to leave, as soon as possible, before he’d do something that would break him—was thunderous and the lightning bolts shook the earth with so much strength he would at times jump from surprise.
Now, though, storms make him feel jittery, and as soon as the first flash of lightning crosses the sky he runs up to the window to close the shutters.
His hand is trembling against the window pane. He probably won’t get a lot of customers for tonight’s dinner—not that he minds. He doesn’t need the money that much, so one or two quiet evenings feel like a welcome respite. He still sets a couple of tables, just in case, and thinks of the bottle of wine he could open if someone does come to eat.
The door of the restaurant opens behind his back, and Nero turns his head in order to tell whoever wants to get in that the first service won’t start for another thirty minutes—and stops right in his tracks when he recognizes the silver hair, drenched with rain, and the carmine eyes that look straight at him with an excuse.
Nero stays still, his mouth agape.
The memory wizard shyly asks: “Can I take shelter?”
Still voiceless, Nero nods and the man closes the door behind him. It feels even worse than when Nero invited him into the kitchen; he’s not ready for another person’s company, and he shifts uncomfortably.
“You can sit if you want,” Nero offers, reluctant. Because he’s not too heartless to let a poor man in the rain.
He knows his kind heart will be the death of him, one day. If Brad doesn’t get to him first. Nero kind of wishes he would.
The wizard sits down and Nero decides to ignore him. When he’s done setting the last table, he goes behind the counter to look for bottles of the wine he decided will go best with tonight’s chicken. The mundane gestures, paired with the background sound of the storm, ease his nerves a little.
“I decided to leave this city tomorrow,” the other wizard breaks the silence right when Nero manages to convince himself that he’s alone, that there’s an invisible wall separating the two of them preventing the other from starting a conversation.
Putting on his best professional smile, Nero gets up from behind the counter. “Did you find what you were lookin’ for?”
“No.” There’s a beat of silence, and Nero wonders if it means he can go back to his preparations, but then the man goes on: “But I’ve been looking for so long, so I don’t mind.”
“I see.” Nero slides the bottles on the counter. One, two, three—that should be more than enough. He’ll drink the ones that won’t be finished by his customers. It’s another thing that puts his mind at peace: drinking alone after he’s done with all his chores, enjoying the silence of his restaurant after a whole day of work.
The wizard is staring at him. “Are you sure you don’t want to part with any of your memories? Not even to help a fellow wizard out?”
Nero stares back. “Why?”
He means it as, why should I lend you a hand when you’re a stranger. He doesn’t like it when people ask for his help. He’s always been a kind guy, even if he pretends he’s not; it’s really hard for him to say no to someone. That’s why he wasn’t fit to be a Northern wizard; his heart is too soft, he doesn’t have what it takes to hurt someone. Stealing from them wasn’t a problem, of course; he’s done it plenty of times, and even now, even though he tries to live an honest life, he wouldn’t be above stealing again if he had to. Crushing someone under his foot, however—no thanks. You can replace your belongings, but you can’t do the same with your own life.
So Nero’s why wasn’t an invitation to tell more, but the wizard takes it that way.
“I need memories so I can find mine again.”
Nero frowns. “S’that so.”
“It’s for a ritual,” the man clarifies, and Nero understands that he needs to talk to someone. There might be other wizards in the city, for all Nero knows, but he’s never crossed paths with them, and Nero is the only one who can listen to him without denouncing him to the authorities. He refrains a sigh. “My memories have been sealed away. I don’t even remember my name or where I live. I know everything’s still in my head, but I just can’t remember.”
“Is that a curse?” Nero asks, deciding to play the part—he’s the owner of a restaurant, he’s used to these one-sided conversations in which he only replies enough for the other to not feel like they’re talking to a walk. It’s good for business, so it’s a skill he’s learnt over time.
“Perhaps? I really don’t know. But I’ve found an old ritual that allows you to get your memories back in exchange for memories others gave you willingly. I have some already, but not enough.”
Nero decides not to ask any technical questions—how many memories does he need, what kind of memories, are there other conditions that have to be met so the ritual works, or why this man thought that following a ritual he must have found in a decrepit grimoire is a good idea. “That’s why you ask around.”
The man nods. A flash of lightning illuminates the room for a fraction of a second.
“I can’t help you.” Nero tries to keep his voice as steady as possible. “I only have happy memories. I don’t want to get rid of them.”
The lie feels heavy on his tongue.
The man looks away. “I understand.” Thunder roars. “Any kind of memories work, really, but it’d be rude of me to take something you care about. It’s fine, don’t worry about me.”
Nero freezes. The wizard believes him. Nero doesn’t believe he’s that good at lying, though. He only gets away with his lies because people are not trying to understand his true intentions. He’s kind, so they trust him. They just can’t imagine how ugly his heart is, deep down.
And the wizard doesn’t even notice his reaction. The man’s looking through the window, contemplating the rain obscuring the street. “I can wait. It’s been decades since I’ve lost my memories, you know. I’m used to it, at this point.”
Nero wonders why this man hasn’t rebuilt his own life if it’s been that long. He could’ve used his amnesia to start from scratch, could’ve found something he likes enough to dedicate his life to, and by now he’d be a brand new person instead of the shadow of a forgotten wizard. This would’ve been the easier path, the path leading to happiness.
Yet he knows why the man hasn’t—just like Nero hasn’t offered to give any of his memories. He’d feel better if he could forget Brad. He’d be free from his heaviest burden.
And he wouldn’t be able to heal.
“Dinner’s on the house,” Nero offers, because they are right, he is kind in his own way. He only offers things that won’t cost him too much, won’t force him to open up—but he still does, because a part of him wants to be the man they believe he is.
The wizard who doesn’t remember his name looks again in Nero’s direction. His face softens as he says, “Thank you, Mister Nero.”
☾
Nero’s already in the streets in the early morning, when the sun casts a dim light over the pavement and the few passers-by are poor workers who avoid his gaze as they pass each other.
He’s used to waking up early, and he’s already prepared the bread for today’s lunch. There are still many things he needs to do before he can open his restaurant at noon, but he doesn’t think much about it. The routine is ingrained into him; it’s been the same since the first time he opened his own business, with only a few adjustments depending on the specificities of the towns he’s lived in. And so far, life is easier in the City of Rain, where the markets offer a wider variety of products and the stalls close their doors later in the day.
He feels faint traces of magic in the air. He thinks he recognizes this magic; he was looking for it.
He hasn’t slept a wink last night, the silhouette of a hunched wizard who smiled even though his eyes were saying he wanted to give up keeping him awake.
So he walks towards the magic even though it’s one of the worst ideas he ever got. Perhaps not as bad as sending an anonymous tip to the wrong person, but he feels something akin to guilt weighing on his shoulders as he gets closer to the source of the traces. There’s something he has to do before the other wizard leaves.
(He’s always been that way, always picking the one option that will hurt him the most.)
Nero finds the nameless wizard as the other man walks out of a house, a travel bag on his shoulders. His gaze meets Nero’s and he freezes, as though surprised to see him there. Nero stops, too. Now that he found the man, he doesn’t know what to say. His tongue is too heavy for him to form proper words.
The wizard is the one who breaks the silence. He stares at Nero, then nods as if he understands what he wants. “Follow me,” he says, and Nero lets him lead the way.
For a long while, none of the men talk. This shouldn’t be so unnerving, for Nero. He’s always found peace in the silence of the streets; even the sounds of footsteps, the singing of birds and the breath of a breeze all together are quieter than the strong winds howling in the North. Eastern Country isn’t a dangerous country where you may die just because you forgot to cast a spell to warm yourself or because you walked on a path that belonged to a stronger wizard.
And yet Nero’s instincts are telling him to run away.
Nonetheless, he follows the man to the outskirts of the City, to a place he’s never been to before. The houses here are smaller, the air feels heavier, the sky is darker. And then, suddenly, the man stops, as though this place is safe for the conversation they’re about to have.
“So? What memory do you want to part with?”
Nero gulps. Breathes in, slowly, to give himself courage.
Then takes the first step.
“I want to forget I met you.”
The wizard’s eyes widen at the unexpected request. “Are you sure?”
“Why? You think it won’t work?”
“No, I think it will.” The wizard closes the gap between Nero and him, their noses almost touching. Nero feels himself shiver; the man’s skin is as cold as ice. “I believe you care enough about me to make it a valuable memory.”
Nero doesn’t answer.
It’d be easier, if he didn’t get attached so easily. But it’s been a long time since Nero ever let anyone in; even if he kept so many things about himself quiet, even if he pretended to have the peaceful life with only happy memories he’s always wanted, he can’t help but feel something for this man. He cares despite himself—despite how empty he’s always been.
“Thank you, Mister Nero,” the man whispers. “I’ll remember for you.”
Then a flash of light passes before Nero’s eyes, and when he finally sees again he’s alone in a part of the city he doesn’t know, with no recollection of how he went here.
There’s magic in their air, but it feels gentle, familiar, and it eases his nerves a little.
There’s an empty space in his chest, too, a cavity right next to where his heart is beating. Nero feels like he’s just lost something, but whatever it is, he’s not going to miss it. For the first time in a while, his shoulders are light, his mind clear.
He walks back home. He still has lunch to prepare, and patrons to welcome.