The Sentinels the carving of the way

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Szymon considered her question with characteristic seriousness, his brow furrowing as one tattered ear swept out toward the churn of the ocean. “Could you allow yourself to be nothing?” she had asked, her richly accented timbre undulating and melodic with the undercurrent of a song he did not know and would not remember. “No,” he admitted, perhaps a bit more vehemently than was required. He had been nothing for most of his young life, and having tasted what it was to be something — to Doe, to their children, to his wolves — he could never go back. He didn’t understand her cryptic proclamation — “I am none,” — and made no comment, instead allowing his wayward ear to join its mate in listening actively, fully to her.

The Wanderer, she named herself, and though he wondered at her use of “they” he kept a lid on it and posed what he felt was a more important query: “What should I call you?” he asked bluntly. He liked things to be in straight, understandable lines, and though he could appreciate the Wanderer’s enigmatic nature, it was in his nature to request that certain things be clearly laid out for him.

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