Half-Oath

PART 1: HALF-BLOOD

In the locked western wing of the Kalidurian Citadel stands a nervously glancing young man in front of a door. He withdraws the hand he has already placed on the knob, takes a shaky breath, and for the duration of a heartbeat, he closes his eyes. When he opens them again, a fierce determination gleams within. He straightens his shoulders, gripping the doorknob so tightly that his knuckles turn white - and opens the door.

The room is bleak. Apart from a bed and a table with four chairs, there is nothing to give it any character. The window is barred, and although it is open, the air is stale. The sun hides behind a wall of clouds, bathing the room in a bright, cool light.

"So you're the new reader I didn't ask for," grumbles the patient, who, sitting on one of the chairs, plays with a small object in his hands.

He didn't even look up when the door opened, and he still doesn't now. His shaved head, sunken cheeks and long white nightshirt make him look like an embittered old man, though he's barely in his mid-twenties. His sight shakes the visitor, who does his best not to show it.

"Something like that," he says, gently closing the door behind him and stepping closer. In doing so, he catches a glimpse of the object the patient incessantly kneads in his hands. It's a leather bracelet with a whitish crystal woven into it.

"Then you may as well leave, because I have no intention to subject myself to any more tales, chronicles or poems," the patient's words cut as sharply as a knife.

The visitor halts in surprise, needing a moment to compose himself. "I was told that contact with the outside world is an important part of your therapy and that stories might help you remember something from your past."

"Then you also would've heard that I sent your predecessor away because it didn't work the way the doctors had hoped. I only remember the stories, not my life outside this room. Why do you assume you can do better?"

"Because I won't be reading to you. The story I have for you isn't written anywhere and it has never been told."

"And how the hell is a completely unknown story supposed to help bring back my memories?!" the patient bursts out.

"By addressing the events of the last ten years, up to the point when you were admitted here. Maybe it'll help your memory, maybe it won't, but at least I won't bore you."

This finally grabs the attention of the patient. He lets go of the object and looks at his visitor for the first time. He startles because in the pale light, the visitor's grey eyes seem as uncompromising as an approaching storm. A fine, silvery scar runs along his cheekbone. Perhaps it's his imposing height or his proud, upright posture, but his presence is truly intimidating. "What's your name?"

"Ares. And yours?"

"Teban." The bald man squints. "Are you also one of the physicians?"

"What? Oh, you mean because of the coat?" To Teban's surprise, Ares begins to laugh. It's a friendly, warm sound, completely contrary to his appearance. Teban likes it because it doesn't feel as sterile and artificial as the rest of his environment.

"No, I've been many things, but I've never called myself a physician. The coat was handed to me upon entry; I was not allowed to enter these rooms without it." Ares' gaze flutters to the ground.

Teban makes a dismissive gesture. "No need to be embarrassed. I can imagine what's going on in the minds of the physicians. They gave you the clothing and the coat so you couldn't smuggle anything in that I could later use to harm myself with. But I can assure you, I can't think of any reason why I'd want to do that." He tries to strike a cheerful tone, but Teban realises he can't banish the bitterness from his voice.