Chapter Text
The rain came without warning.
Gyro looked up at the sky when the first drop hit his cheek cold blunt like a dull blade. Then the next drops poured down not in droplets but in sheets as if the sky had ripped open an old wound and the sky's blood was falling to the ground. He closed his eyes for a second feeling the smell of earth rising up the smell of decayed moss the smell of wet stone the smell of something that had died long ago.
Under the crumbling eaves of an ancient temple Johnny sat curled among the broken stones.
Gyro looked over his shoulder. The last light of dusk slipped through the cracks in the ceiling falling on half of the boy's face revealing a jawline sharp as a fracture in rock. But the other half was submerged in darkness and in that darkness Gyro could not know what he was thinking. Maybe nothing. Maybe too much.
He took off his cloak draped it over a jutting rock creating a makeshift tarp. Water dripped from the cloak forming a small puddle on the ground and in that puddle Gyro saw his own reflection deep lines a beard of several days unshaven eyes accustomed to looking far.
"You don't ask," Johnny said.
His voice dry emotionless like two stones striking each other.
"Ask what?" Gyro did not turn around.
"Why I ran away. Why someone is chasing me."
Gyro picked up a piece of broken wood snapped it in half. The crack echoed crisply in the damp air. "You will tell me if you want to."
Johnny did not answer. He pulled his knees up to his chest wrapped his arms around his legs forming a tight shape like a flower bud refusing to bloom. The torn silk robe expensive fabric but threadbare like the one wearing it once noble now just the shadow of a shadow.
Gyro turned his back to the rain. He did not look at the boy. He only reached behind him opened his water flask placed it next to Johnny. A wordless gesture. An offer that needed no acceptance.
Outside the forest bent under the water. The leaves trembled like shaking hands and in that rain Gyro thought of all the other rains he had endured through years of wandering. The rains on the grassland water seeping into his boots cold to the bone. The rains by the western shore salty damp clinging to the skin like longing. And the rains in the mountains too cold to be rain turning to snow falling white and in that whiteness he had once lost his way had once sat waiting to die beside a dead horse had once learned that the world owes no one an escape.
"Your scent."
Johnny's voice again.
Gyro did not answer. He knew his own scent. Sandalwood the smell that had seeped into his flesh years ago and had never left. Some Omegas said it made them feel safe. Others said it was too heavy too masculine too impossible to ignore.
Johnny had said nothing about it. Perhaps he never would.
"You smell like jasmine," Gyro said his voice steady as if talking about the weather. "And vanilla. But the vanilla is not real vanilla. It is lighter. Like someone cooked it and let it cool."
Silence stretched. The rain kept falling.
When Johnny spoke his voice was a little hoarse very small very easy to miss "My mother grew jasmine. Before she died."
Gyro nodded. He did not say you can tell me about it. He said nothing at all. He just sat down on another rock about three arm spans away from Johnny close enough to shield far enough not to trap him.
Outside the rain began to ease. But water still clung to the leaves. And each time a drop fell from the eaves it made a small tapping sound like a door closing or a heart that had closed itself long before it learned what it meant to beat.
---
They did not sleep.
Gyro knew because he had never slept much. On the western shore dawn arrived like a slap. But here in this ruined temple dawn crept in slowly through every crack in the rock every hole in the wall every fracture in the fallen altar. Ash colored light cold without any warmth.
Johnny still sat in the corner of the wall. Last night's rain had soaked through his clothes leaving damp marks on his shoulders on his neck where the weak light touched his skin was so pale it was nearly blue like milk diluted with water or snow before it had a chance to melt.
He did not look at Gyro.
Gyro stood up walked outside. He did not say anything he just walked.
When he returned he carried a few wild fruits and a full water flask. Johnny looked at them for a long time then looked at Gyro. His eyes had something like a cornered animal wanting to bite and wanting to die at the same time.
"You don't have to do this," Johnny said.
"Do what?"
"Feed me. Protect me. Follow me."
Gyro placed the food on a stone slab between them. He sat down took a sip from the flask first to prove it was not poisoned then pushed it toward Johnny.
"I once saw a three legged wolf," Gyro said his voice even as a lullaby "in an old forest in the North. It was wounded. Could not hunt. But it did not die. The other wolves still brought it food. Not out of pity. Because it had once protected the pack."
Johnny said nothing.
"And because" Gyro continued "when winter comes the cold does not distinguish between the strong and the weak. It only wants to kill everything."
Silence.
Then Johnny took the fruit. He did not say thank you. He just bit into it chewed slowly his eyes on the ground. And in that moment just a moment the scent of jasmine drifted through the damp air stronger than ever.
A little more vanilla.
Gyro said nothing. He only turned his face toward the dawn where the first rays of light were beginning to pierce the thin mist and thought some things need no words to exist.
Like trust.
Like the smell of jasmine after rain.
Like a man who does not sleep staying awake to protect someone who trusts no one.
---
Outside in the distance the sound of hooves echoed from the forest. Not close yet. But close enough to know they were coming.
Gyro stood up his hand on his sword hilt.
Johnny looked up. For the first time he looked straight at Gyro's face without avoidance without coldness. Just looking.
"You will leave," Johnny said. Not a question. A fact.
Gyro smiled. Not a warm smile. It was dry tired like the cracks on the altar after the rain.
"I have left many times before."
He stepped out from under the eaves.
Outside dawn had not yet decided whether to come. And Johnny for the first time in many years felt something warm seeping through the cracks in his ribcage light as the scent of sandalwood dissolving in the cold air and fragile as a man who chose to stay even knowing he might die.
He had not yet named that feeling.
And perhaps he never would.
Gyro heard them before he saw them.
Twelve hooves. Three horses. Two men one heavier one lighter. The sound of swords touching saddles the sound of leather rubbing against leather the sound of breathing quick from traveling far. He had learned to listen to the world through the smallest things because on the vast grassland silence kills faster than guns.
And silence also saves.
He stepped back his hand on Johnny's shoulder not pushing just placing like setting a knife on the table so the other person knows to avoid it. The boy did not flinch or pull back. He just went rigid.
"Quiet" Gyro whispered. His breath passed by Johnny's ear carrying the scent of sandalwood damp from the night rain.
Johnny did not nod. He just held his breath.
Outside voices drifted in.
"...sure it went this way. The jasmine scent is still on the road."
"That brat. The lord will skin us if we come back empty handed."
"Shut up. Listen."
Silence. Then the sound of boots on wet clay squish squish squish closer closer until through a crack in the stone Gyro saw a man's shadow broad shoulders short neck sword in his right hand torch in his left. The firelight swept across the ruined wall across the broken altar across the torn silk rags Johnny had hung to dry overnight.
Gyro did not move. He had learned that sometimes a still body is the sharpest weapon.
The man stopped.
The torch came closer. The heat spread making the water still clinging to Gyro's forehead evaporate into thin smoke colorless odorless but visible if you were close enough. And through that smoke Johnny saw Gyro's face not fear but something older. Something that had seen too many deaths to fear any coming death.
"Come out" the man said. "You boy. Come out I will not harm you. The lord only wants to see"
Thud.
A small stone from Gyro's hand struck the torch. The fire went out. Darkness fell like a hungry beast starved for too long.
The man managed to draw his sword but did not manage to scream. Gyro was already in front of him not with one step but with half a step half a breath half a moment. His blade did not strike. It only tapped the man's wrist a motion like a caress and the sword fell to the ground with the painful cry of metal.
The second man tried to turn his horse. Gyro did not chase. He only bent down picked up the fallen sword and threw not toward the fleeing man but to his left where a rotten tree stump stood. The blade sank into the trunk vibrating like an unfinished sentence.
The second man stopped.
"Get lost" Gyro said.
One word. But it was heavy as a boulder.
They left. Both of them. One leaving his sword behind the other yanking the reins so his horse reared and the sound of hooves faded faded until nothing remained but the sound of rain falling on leaves and the sound of Johnny's heartbeat which Gyro could hear without even trying.
He turned back.
Johnny was still sitting still. The gray light of dawn slipped through the cracks in the stone painting patches of light and dark on his face like a map no one knew how to read. And in the darkness of the eaves Gyro saw his hand gripping a shard of broken pottery a desperate weapon sharp enough to cut his own wrist before it cut another's throat.
"You were going to use that?" Gyro said.
Johnny did not answer. But his fingers loosened slowly.
The shard fell to the ground breaking in two.
---
They continued south.
Gyro did not ask where Johnny wanted to go. He just walked ahead about three steps away close enough to block the thorns close enough to push aside low branches close enough that Johnny did not have to see his back if he did not want to. Because some people after everything cannot bear an unguarded back it reminds them that they have been betrayed from behind before.
The path wound through sparse forest. The trees were no longer lush like in the North they were gaunt bare like standing skeletons. And on those branches gray moss hung swaying gently in the wind like funeral curtains.
The wind blew from the south carrying the distant smell of sea salt and the smell of some town cooking. Johnny paused for a second. Perhaps he had never seen the sea. Perhaps he had never seen anything beyond the stone walls of his parents' castle and then the other stone walls of the lord.
"I had never been outside before I ran away" Johnny said. His voice was still dry still even. But underneath there was something a very small vibration like a string stirred by the wind.
Gyro did not turn around. "Yeah."
"You don't ask if I am scared."
"Being scared is normal."
Johnny quickened his pace a little closing the distance between them to two steps. Then one step. Then he walked alongside Gyro not beside still an arm away but close enough to see his face under the sun that had not yet turned gold.
The sun came from the right casting long shadows on the ground. And in those shadows Gyro's shadow was taller than Johnny's but it did not overshadow his. Two shadows parallel not touching like two roads running side by side not yet deciding whether to meet.
The scent of jasmine drifted by lighter than ever.
"I am scared" Johnny said his voice very small. "But I am more scared of going back."
Gyro nodded. He did not say I understand. Because some fears need no understanding. They just need to be accompanied.
---
Afternoon came and they stopped by a small stream.
The water was so clear you could see every pebble at the bottom and every pebble was round and soft as if the current had held them for thousands of years to wear away every sharp edge. Gyro sat on the bank took off his boots put his feet in the cold water. He did not wash his face. He did nothing at all. He just watched the water flow and let the tired muscles of his body rest.
Johnny stood a few steps away looking down at the water but not looking at the water. He looked at his reflection in the water. A thin face two prominent cheekbones and dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep from fear from nameless things. In the clear water he saw himself older than his years. Much older.
Gyro scooped up a handful of water let it run through his fingers. The drops fell making small circles on the stream's surface then disappeared as if they had never been.
"In the South" he began his voice even as if telling a fairy tale "there is a valley they call the Valley of the Wild Horses. There horses run in herds of hundreds. In spring the riverbanks are full of wildflowers. Yellow purple red. So many that from afar you would think someone had spread a giant carpet on the ground."
Johnny said nothing. But he did not take his eyes off Gyro.
"There was a mare" Gyro continued "gray with black eyes. She was not the most beautiful in the herd. Not the fastest. But she was the only one who dared to stop when the herd ran from a storm. She stopped turned her back to the wind and closed her eyes. Waited. Waited for the storm to pass."
He stopped picked up a pebble from the stream turned it in his palm.
"A year later people saw her leading the herd."
Johnny bent down. He also took off his boots the worn torn leather boots that had walked too many roads and put his feet in the water. The cold stream bit his skin but he did not pull back. He let the water hold his ankles the old scars the bruises that had not yet had time to yellow.
"Horses aren't afraid?" he asked.
"Horses are afraid" Gyro answered. "But there are things more important than fear."
Silence.
Then Johnny laughed.
Not a loud laugh not a happy laugh. It was very small just a soft sound escaping from his throat like broken glass pieces rubbing together but it was there at the corner of his mouth in his eyes in the way he raised his hand to cover his mouth as if he had just done something wrong.
The scent of vanilla spread in the twilight air sweet and warm like fresh bread from a kitchen that no longer existed.
Gyro did not look at him. He still looked at the stream and the corner of his mouth curved up just slightly very gently like a crack in a wall after an earthquake.
They sat like that by the stream until dusk fell and the pebbles under the water slowly sank into darkness until you could no longer tell water from stone shadow from reality.
Johnny's first laugh in years did not come from his lips.
It came from somewhere deeper somewhere he did not know he still had.)
Chapter 3 Shadows on the Dirt Road
They walked another three days before the nightmare came.
Three days. Seventy two hours. Four thousand three hundred twenty minutes that Gyro counted with each footstep with the breathing of the one behind him with the times Johnny stopped to listen then walked again. He did not ask where they were going. Gyro did not say either. Some journeys need no destination they only need movement only need to leave behind what cannot be carried.
Day one the forest thinned giving way to grass fields. Dry grass as high as a waist when the wind blew it made waves of faded yellow like a sea but a sea that had died long ago. Johnny walked behind Gyro and sometimes he raised his hand to brush the tops of the grass letting them slip through his palm like the fingers of someone long lost. His jasmine scent grew fainter after days without rest but it was still there hidden under layers of sweat and road dust like a memory that refused to die.
Gyro turned into a small grove picked a few red wild fruits put them in his cloth bag. He did not give them to Johnny right away. He waited. At noon when the heat began to burn his face he stopped by a large rock sat down took out the fruit placed it beside him like a wordless invitation.
Johnny looked. Then he sat down an arm span away. He took one fruit did not bite just looked at it in his palm. The sun filtered through the leaves scattering small spots of light on the back of his hand and on those spots Gyro saw blue veins under his skin a map of fragility.
"You never asked my name" Johnny said.
"You never told me."
"Johnny."
Gyro nodded.
---
Day two they met an old woman by the roadside.
She sat on a rock barefoot clothes torn holding a child who did not cry. The child's eyes were wide open but saw nothing the eyes of someone who had seen too much to want to see anything more.
Gyro stopped. He took half of the remaining food from his bag placed it before the woman. She did not say thank you. She just looked at him and in her eyes Gyro saw a question no one dared to ask is this still called living.
He did not answer. He just walked on.
Johnny walked behind him silent. But when they had passed the rock he said his voice dry as withered leaves crushed underfoot "She cannot go much further."
"Yeah."
"The child will die."
"Yeah."
"You won't do anything?"
Gyro stopped. He turned to look at Johnny for the first time looking straight into his eyes under sunlight not through darkness not through a crack in the stone. And Johnny saw Gyro's eyes were not green like he had thought. They were the color of earth after rain brown mixed with gray mixed with a hint of moss green and a bit of weariness from someone who had seen too many deaths to still believe he could save everyone.
"I cannot save everyone" Gyro said. "But I can give them one day."
Johnny was silent. He looked at the ground where old cart tracks were pressed deep into the dry mud and in those tracks rainwater from last week still pooled tiny glinting in the sun like tears that had dried long ago but refused to evaporate.
"Day two" Johnny said very softly. "You are counting."
Gyro did not deny it. He turned his back and walked on and his shadow stretched long on the dirt road black and thin like a crack in the earth.
---
Day three it did not rain but the air was so damp that sweat could not evaporate.
It clung to the skin forming a thin cold film and under that film Johnny's body shivered in waves not from cold but from a fever smoldering inside. He did not say anything. He only walked slower then slower then so slow that Gyro had to stop three times just to wait for him to catch up.
The third time Gyro did not wait anymore. He turned back took off his outer coat placed it over Johnny's shoulder without asking without explaining. His coat was wide rough smelling of sandalwood and sweat and the forests he had walked through. Johnny tried to take it off but his hands were too weak only managed to grab the collar then let go then grab again.
He did not say thank you.
But he did not take the coat off again.
They walked through a field that had been burned. Blackened tree trunks rose from the ground like fingers of the dead and on those fingers a few green shoots were sprouting fragile naive as if they did not know the whole field had died long ago.
Gyro looked at those shoots and he thought of Johnny. Of how he kept walking even though his feet were bloody. Of how he still picked up the broken pottery shard even though he knew it could not save him. Of how he laughed that tiny laugh by the stream as if he had forgotten he could still do that.
He thought some things can live on dead soil. Not because they are strong. But because they do not know how to die.
At dusk Johnny fell.
He collapsed like a wall falling after the last earthquake. No cry. No sob. Only ragged breathing short quick like a wounded bird beating its wings in a cage.
Gyro knelt beside him. His face close to the boy's face close enough to see every pore in that skin close enough to see sweat running down his temple to his cheekbone close enough to see his cracked lips no longer pink just two lines drawn with charcoal on white paper.
He placed his hand on Johnny's forehead. Hot. Hot as a stove after a long day that would not cool.
"Johnny."
No answer.
"Johnny."
His eyes opened but saw nothing. Like the child by the roadside yesterday. Like a door opening onto emptiness.
Gyro looked around. No house. No village. No one. Only the burned field only the black tree trunks only the lead colored sky preparing for another rain.
He picked Johnny up.
No question. No hesitation. He picked him up like a child or like something too precious to set down even knowing that some things never belong to you.
Johnny rested his head on Gyro's shoulder. His breath fell on Gyro's neck hot damp like a voiceless whisper. And in that breath the scent of jasmine rose faint but refusing to go out like an oil lamp before a strong wind like a promise spoken in darkness when no one was listening.
The western sky turned a bruised purple like an old wound festering.
Gyro walked through the dead field carrying a living creature that still breathed.
And that was all he needed to know.