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That night, you dream of pleasant days. Before the Alans brought their war, before the carnage of Charlemont, and well before you even dreamed up the idea to take your father's place when the garrison came calling.
The rolling hills of green pasture and the scattered lemon trees. When not away upon campaign, your father herded heads of beef to keep his way. When you got big enough, he put you in charge of wrangling the bulls into their pens, in part to get you used to the weight of maille one wore to catch an errant horn. All things were training in their own way, a chance to prepare yourself for future troubles, for that's how your old man sees the world.
You do not dream of bulls, however, but of the lemons and the clover. Running through fallow fields with the other children. None could beat you in a race, be it across a field or up the great lisbon tree that stood like a tower on a hill overlooking all the fields. Especially not across the lake, for few were brave enough to strip down for a swim, and fewer still knew how to do anything more than avoid drowning.
All those friends are now wed, with only few exception. You made a strange Maid of Honor for your dearest friend Elian, towering over her groom. Astrid, Gilbert, and Nolan too, all of them married before you reached twenty-two, and none to whom they expected, when you all talked of such things in the big lisbon's shade.
Only you and René remain bachelor and bachelorette.
You doubt he remembers the silly promise you both made. You doubt he remembers you. He left to learn the deeper arts of his craft in Sal Khemia not long after you left to fight the Alans horde. You knew his plans and he knew yours, and you both promised to wait until the other returned. While you have come and gone from Olsvale many times, he remains in his desert city... if he remains alive at all.
You wake up clutching upon a keepsake of his. One of his creations, life born of chalk that shall never wither, for its alien nature to this world. A pure-white daffodil you wear as a rosette, most often pinned to your capelet. Unmoving as stone to the touch, and hard as steel, it is more an ornament than a flower.
But it still breathes, still moves to drink the sunlight. René's craft bordered on the heretical at times, without ever crossing that line, but nothing that loves the sun so can be evil as some preachers say.
It joins you in your morning prayers, and then upon the brim of your bonnet. Today you wish to show some faith in your hosts, to make them feel at ease in the knowledge that you trust them not to break the guest right. They invited your forces into their village to deal with a wider threat, so reminders of yesterday's squabble over your presence - and, indeed, such open armament - would only worsen tensions.
