- IX - The Hermit

Alden stared listlessly into the small fire, feeling the biting chill of the winter air on his skin. The nights were brutal in the streets of the kingdom's capital this time of the year; Alden knew firsthand. He was homeless, living off of whatever charity he could find. Most people didn't see him as human. He had no job, no family, no home, no money, and he was just barely making do on the street. He'd been a lad when he ran away from home, from the violence of his father and the apathy of his mother, and the years had not been kind. The city guards treated him like scum, and no one would hire him. He was just another beggar, another blight on the city. Alden did his best, and he kept to himself, but his best wasn't enough—that hurt. He wished, sometimes, that he had the power to change things, that he could be a hero like in the stories his mother had once read to him, back when her smile was still kind and her words weren't slurred by the wine she drowned her sorrows in. But those were only stories, and his reality was this. He pulled his threadbare blanket tighter around his shoulders, staring into the flames and trying to ignore the growling of his stomach. He ran a dirt-streaked hand over his unkempt beard, wondering when the last time he had a proper bath was. It'd been a while. He wasn't sure. It didn't matter anyway. Footsteps sounded, and his heart skipped a beat as he turned, expecting the city guard. Instead he saw soft furs and kind eyes, and the soft glint of metal in the firelight. His cup clinked, once, twice, three times. Money. A gentle scent wafted from the generous soul before him, herbal and floral. Suddenly he was very self-conscious about his smell. He reeked, no doubt. "Thank you," he rasped. He couldn't remember the last time someone had tossed a coin his way, let alone three. Was this a trick? Were the guards going to appear out of nowhere and arrest him? "It's a cold night," he continued for some reason. "The streets are dangerous at this hour. Be careful."