Friends At The Table

I write this with no knowledge of where you are, or if you are. Yet, still, I write. And as I write, my words are overtaken by memories. Your finger pointing at verse in some ancient text—I have forgotten the book’s name in favor of remembering your eyes, bright. Your voluminous generosity, as you led me into inquiry I dared not pursue. Your voice, angry, confused, and honest in the face of terror. And then, for the last time, your stark figure silhouetted against early moonlight on that hill south of Rosemerrow. Has the paladin protected you, I wonder? Could I have offered my own protection instead of simply suggesting I hide you away like I did the others? I thought I was presenting you a gift, but in retrospect, I fear I was too vague: Perhaps you believed that I felt you were important in general—like the others I saved—instead of important to me. I’m moving now, Pupil. I'm retrieving the book and with it, I will build us a home. All of us. I’m moving now because I must. Because I will not let your memory