21 Winter, 511
Belgar wore the same coat he always had, and the same thoughtful scowl. It was the first time he had returned to this place since the nature of his crime had been clarified to him. Now that he was named innocent, he felt an emptiness that was impossible to fill; he used to come to admire the art and to appreciate this mark of civilization, and now he did not know what to make of it. The paths seemed contrived, drawn by a fool with greater concept for controlling nature than seeing it. His heavy steps carved deep lines in the soft morning snow, over the bare white spaces and the forested black ones alike, unheeding of the arbitrary trails set around him.
Nothing in particular drove him to take the direction he did. His stroll was mindless, purposeless—it was the perfect state of mind to snag by distraction. These days, that was not so friendly a thing.
He smelled it again, that thing which was nothing and something at the same time, which floated on the scents around it and yet was somehow more than them. At first he thought it was a fallen pine tree, still green before its death, and then he guessed it might be a storm brewing—but it was too concentrated, and it became stronger as he neared one spot, off the path and between the trees.
Then he saw him.
“You.” There was no ceremony, no salutations or reintroductions. He came to the man and took him by the arm, the one that had been pathetically limp the first time they had spoken. “What are you doing? Don’t lie to me, sneak.”