complied with the creature’s request and put away his weapon.
“I’ve travelled a long way to find you,” continued the newcomer. “My name is Elfohrys and I’ve come to you for help, not to fight you.”
Elfohrys stepped closer and studied the young man before him: he was about eighteen years old, with dark brown hair and deep blue eyes flecked with emerald green. His face was grave, and his intense gaze was imbued with melancholy.
Elfohrys caught his breath: “At last,” he told himself.
“Tell me,” he said out loud, “are you not a hovalyn, or a knight errant, as the common folk say?”
“I am,” confirmed the young man.
“And what is your name? You may tell me, have no fear,” Elfohrys assured him, in mounting excitement.
“I have no name,” confessed the young hovalyn. “Or at least, not that I know of. Two years ago, I awoke in a field without any memory of my past. I decided to become a knight errant and go in search of my real name.”
“The Nameless One!” exclaimed Elfohrys admiringly. “Your reputation is known throughout allFairytale! Everywhere, people speak of a gallant hovalyn seeking his own name. Are you truly the Nameless One?”
“Unhappily, yes. My quest seems to have led me nowhere.”
“It is within my power to assist you. I can help you pass through this forest, and will accompany you even farther on your way.”
“But why should you wish to help me?”
“I too am on a quest, but I may not reveal to you either its purpose or my destination.”
“I am seeking the Chosen One,” added Elfohrys to himself, “and I believe I have found him.”
The hovalyn asked no questions; after all, he welcomed a travelling companion, even a mysterious one. The silent young man’s thoughts turned, as always, towards his dream: to have an identity. He had wandered in vain through most of Fairytale asking everyone if they knew anything about him. En route he had fought many monsters that had been terrorising the population, and admittedly he had been richly rewarded, but glory was not what he wanted. At night, after having faced a thousand perils,he never fell asleep without wondering what his name was and where he had come from. He had invented hundreds of pasts for himself, depending on his moods, but this brought him little comfort, and frustration continued to eat away at him as he wandered on his fruitless mission.
It was growing late, and he was getting hungry. The youth opened his heavy leather bag and took out some bread, a gourd of water, some smoked turkey, and a strange-looking fruit. He offered to share his food with Elfohrys, who declined politely, producing an extraordinary-looking meal from his own bag: a sticky purple mass, which he devoured. Quickly satisfied, he waited patiently while his companion ate his own repast. Without a word, the Nameless One made a crackling fire, and sat down beside it to ponder his unexpected situation. All of a sudden he had found himself in the company of a stranger about whom he knew absolutely — or almost — nothing. Could he trust him?
Elfohrys had stretched out and was already sleeping deeply.
The young hovalyn could not manage sleep himself and lay staring up at the twinkling stars. Hetried to recognise the different constellations and remember their names. He was overcome with anguish… What was he? Who was he? Nothing but a body, a soul in pain, with no memory, nothing that would make him a human being. He was a stranger to himself. He drew his sword from its scabbard and studied its long, glossy blade, so smooth and sharp. He imagined the blade piercing his own heart. Would he feel cold? Perhaps not; he already carried winter inside him, an eternal winter of questions without answers. Of what use was he in this world?
The stars shone more brightly than usual. He got up, sword still in hand, and began to walk without knowing where he was going, without worrying that he might become lost. What did it matter? He took a
“I’ve travelled a long way to find you,” continued the newcomer. “My name is Elfohrys and I’ve come to you for help, not to fight you.”
Elfohrys stepped closer and studied the young man before him: he was about eighteen years old, with dark brown hair and deep blue eyes flecked with emerald green. His face was grave, and his intense gaze was imbued with melancholy.
Elfohrys caught his breath: “At last,” he told himself.
“Tell me,” he said out loud, “are you not a hovalyn, or a knight errant, as the common folk say?”
“I am,” confirmed the young man.
“And what is your name? You may tell me, have no fear,” Elfohrys assured him, in mounting excitement.
“I have no name,” confessed the young hovalyn. “Or at least, not that I know of. Two years ago, I awoke in a field without any memory of my past. I decided to become a knight errant and go in search of my real name.”
“The Nameless One!” exclaimed Elfohrys admiringly. “Your reputation is known throughout allFairytale! Everywhere, people speak of a gallant hovalyn seeking his own name. Are you truly the Nameless One?”
“Unhappily, yes. My quest seems to have led me nowhere.”
“It is within my power to assist you. I can help you pass through this forest, and will accompany you even farther on your way.”
“But why should you wish to help me?”
“I too am on a quest, but I may not reveal to you either its purpose or my destination.”
“I am seeking the Chosen One,” added Elfohrys to himself, “and I believe I have found him.”
The hovalyn asked no questions; after all, he welcomed a travelling companion, even a mysterious one. The silent young man’s thoughts turned, as always, towards his dream: to have an identity. He had wandered in vain through most of Fairytale asking everyone if they knew anything about him. En route he had fought many monsters that had been terrorising the population, and admittedly he had been richly rewarded, but glory was not what he wanted. At night, after having faced a thousand perils,he never fell asleep without wondering what his name was and where he had come from. He had invented hundreds of pasts for himself, depending on his moods, but this brought him little comfort, and frustration continued to eat away at him as he wandered on his fruitless mission.
It was growing late, and he was getting hungry. The youth opened his heavy leather bag and took out some bread, a gourd of water, some smoked turkey, and a strange-looking fruit. He offered to share his food with Elfohrys, who declined politely, producing an extraordinary-looking meal from his own bag: a sticky purple mass, which he devoured. Quickly satisfied, he waited patiently while his companion ate his own repast. Without a word, the Nameless One made a crackling fire, and sat down beside it to ponder his unexpected situation. All of a sudden he had found himself in the company of a stranger about whom he knew absolutely — or almost — nothing. Could he trust him?
Elfohrys had stretched out and was already sleeping deeply.
The young hovalyn could not manage sleep himself and lay staring up at the twinkling stars. Hetried to recognise the different constellations and remember their names. He was overcome with anguish… What was he? Who was he? Nothing but a body, a soul in pain, with no memory, nothing that would make him a human being. He was a stranger to himself. He drew his sword from its scabbard and studied its long, glossy blade, so smooth and sharp. He imagined the blade piercing his own heart. Would he feel cold? Perhaps not; he already carried winter inside him, an eternal winter of questions without answers. Of what use was he in this world?
The stars shone more brightly than usual. He got up, sword still in hand, and began to walk without knowing where he was going, without worrying that he might become lost. What did it matter? He took a
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