Kings Game

Chapter 20 - Home (5) [End of Part 1]

Hesitantly, Roran knocked on the door. He wasn't sure why he had decided to do this with a hangover, but he'd woken up after spending the final night of founder's month with his friends and decided he had to get it over with.

He rapped his knuckles on the dilapidated, wooden door and waited. There was movement inside. Roran looked around the neighborhood. It was a downtrodden place tucked away on the upper slope of Balaki, the mountain named after the third great King. All of the houses—they were more like hovels—were in a general state of disrepair. The few people he saw wandering about were scrawny and battlescarred. Half of them had a bottle dangling from their hands, trying to numb away reality with the sweet oblivion of strong spirits.

There was more movement and the door opened.

"Yeah? What do you want?"

On the other side of the door stood a sour old man. He was taller than Roran and had the scruff of someone who only shaved for special occasions. He was missing his left eye and his right arm, and his face appeared to be set in a permanent scowl. His eye was sharp though, cold and full of cunning. It ran over Roran, dissecting him and weighing the pieces.

"Who are you?"

"Are...are you Toran Aurandale?" Roran asked, suddenly uncertain. Maybe he should have followed his mother's advice and left well enough alone.

"Who's asking?"

"I'm..." Roran swallowed. He didn't think he would be this nervous. Before entering King's City, Roran had never planned on meeting his father, writing him off as just a figment of his mother's past. "I'm Roran. I'm...I think I'm—"

"Oh gods, I didn't recognize you."

"I...you know me?"

"'Course I know you. You were just a squirt the last time I saw you, boohooing over your sick mother, but I see the resemblance. Come in." Toran turned and wandered back inside. "And close the door behind you, don't want to invite any squatters. You have to chase them out with a stick."

Roran followed after Toran and closed the door. The house was rundown and sparsely furnished. Toran walked over to a table and sat down. He kicked another chair away from the table, pushing it out for Roran to sit in.

"So you knew my mother, Alira?" Roran asked.

"Of course I knew your mother. What kind of stupid question is that? I just said I saw you before."

"Right, sorry. The reason I'm here is...the reason I sought you out is that I think you're my father. I know you probably won't believe me, but I wanted to talk to you-"

"Why wouldn't I believe you?" Toran grabbed a bottle from the table and took a swig, grimacing as he swallowed. "Your name is Roran right?"

Roran nodded. "Roran Aurandale, according to my mother."

"Then you're my blood."

"Oh." Roran hadn't expected it to be easy to convince his father that they were related. He had anticipated a fight or for his father to brush him off, like the others had. "How are you so sure?"

"Because your mother asked for a child and I gave her a child. In return I asked that she name the child Roran, after my grandfather, Roranorak of Aurandale, the only bastard in our bloodline that was ever worth a damn. Hopefully you'll be the second bastard in our bloodline worth a damn."

"Oh." Roran wasn't sure how to respond. He hadn't been expecting his father to acknowledge his existence this easily.

"Well don't sit there looking surprised, go make a pot of tea." Toran gestured towards a teapot hanging over the hearth.

Still shocked, Roran got up and fetched the pot. It was a nice pot, engraved iron with a smooth spout. He took it to the sink and washed it out. Nearby was a wooden container full of tea leaves. The container was tightly sealed and the leaves were fresh. Roran felt a sense of nostalgia as he went about preparing the tea. This setup was similar to the one his mother had back in their old home. He almost felt like he was back in time, making a pot of tea for his mother at the end of a long day.

When Roran hung the teapot back over the hearth to boil, he turned around and found Toran staring at him.

"You look like her," he said, his voice soft. "You look a lot like her." Sighing, Toran pulled himself out of his chair and lumbered over to a desk in the corner. "I suppose you'll want some proof that I am who I say I am."

"It's not necessary. The King's aide took a sample of my blood and used that to pinpoint your location. That's enough proof for me."

"Still, you should probably see this."

Toran pulled out a folded up piece of paper and went back to the table. He sat down with a thump and proceeded to unfold the piece of paper, his single hand moving slowly to tease the folds apart. He was almost reverent in his motions, as if opening a holy text. Once he'd completely unfolded the paper, he smoothed it and slid it over to Roran.

"Do you recognize this?"

Roran let out a small whimper when he saw the paper. He felt embarrassed, but took the sheet of paper anyway, running his fingers along the markings. Etched into the paper was an intricate butterfly, composed of geometric shapes all bound together by hard angular lines.

"This was her tattoo," Roran said.

Toran nodded. "Etched across her back."

Recovering from his shock, Roran frowned. The tattoo had a familiar pattern to it. What he'd thought of as a tattoo as a child now had new meaning to him.

"These are focus markings," Roran said, his finger tracing the pattern. "I didn't know what they were as a child, but these are definitely focus markings."

"That's right. You must have spent some time hanging around Champions."

"Yeah, a few of them. Actually, I recently became a Champion myself."

Toran shrugged. "Well, we all make mistakes. You're young, I won't hold it against you." Taking the paper back from Roran, Toran smoothed it out on the table again. "Your mother called it Fatebreaker. And before you ask, I have no idea what it did. It certainly didn't make her any stronger or faster."

That made Roran smile. Despite being the most amazing person Roran had ever known, his mother had always appeared human to him.

They lapsed into silence, both of them staring at the markings etched into the paper. After a time, Roran got up and poured them both some tea. Settling back down, Roran sipped his tea, the flavor reminiscent of his mother's preferred brew.

"I don't know why you sought me out," said Toran. "I don't have anything to offer you. I'm a dried up old mercenary. I only knew your mother because she needed someone who could wield a sword and I was looking for someone to keep my bed warm. After we parted ways, I was nothing more than a fond memory of your mother's adventurous days. I'm no father."

"I'm not looking for a father," Roran said. "I'm looking for the man that made my mother smile. I'm looking for the man that joined my mother on her adventures. I'm looking for the kindest lost soul my mother ever encountered."

Toran laughed. "Did she actually call me that?"

Roran nodded.

Toran sighed, a sad smile on his lips. "That sounds just like her. Fine, then sit there and let me tell you about the most amazing woman I ever had the good fortune of knowing."