A New Story

We traveled through the night. Above, the stars shone like glimmering sparks, like a firework frozen in the dark soup of heaven. They felt like eyes as we stole away from the city. Do the stars see the deeds of men? Do they judge?

A weary journey, and my companion, stoic, silent; his eyes too, I could feel them. We were both armed, and not just in case of robbers. We had both, at times, stabbed a companion in the back. We both knew each other.

“And where are we going?” I asked.

“South,” he said. “Winter’s coming.”

Such was his manner of speech, brisk and utilitarian. I, the verbose, he the specialist. Where he touched tumblers I touched hearts, and together we opened many homes.

“I can feel the day,” I said. The stars were fading, and the scent of morning filled my nose. I spared a glance to the east and saw the first hints of the sun.

A grunt was all his reply.

“Come,” I said. “I am tired. I can’t go on.”

With a groan, he stopped.

His eyes wandered back toward the city. Just barely could its towers be seen above the trees, its proud banners flapping in the breeze.

“They’ll follow,” he said.

“They will, but I must rest before I go on.”

“Then rest,” he said, his eyes darting from the north to the south.

“I’m tired of running,” I said. No reply. “And I know they’re chasing us. Dogs, following the scent.” His eyes, once again, snapped northward.

“Dogs,” he said. I knew he hated dogs.

“And they’ll have a little help, I’m afraid.”

He turned on me, drawing his sword. An uneasy smile came over his face, and he said, “Liar. Good liar. I know you.”

“You know what makes a good lie?” I asked. No reply. “The truth. Closer to the truth you can get, the better the lie.” His sword lowered. “They’ll be coming soon. I know you. You’re not tired. You’re not human. You’re more like the locks you pick. But I can’t go on. Not like this. Not running and stealing all the time. I like this city. I like the people. So I told a new story, and I tried something new this time, telling the truth.” I took the satchel from my shoulder. “Here,” I said, throwing it to him. “There’s your share and my share.”

He nodded. Throwing the bag over his shoulder, he turned southward.

“Wait,” I said.

He stopped.

I drew my sword.

“I can’t let you take that. It belongs to my city.”