Even as I write this I know that people in Arina have forgotten almost everything about them. It is plain to me. I would talk to my father about all the silver they had paid us and he would be puzzled, like he did not know where it had all come from. I would ask the innkeeper, Arafat, about them, only to see him struggle to remember. “They slept for three days here, right? I didn’t talk to them too much,” he would tell me, then quickly change the subject to something more mundane.
They had, in fact, slept in his inn for months.
“The tall one showed me then something he called a “star chart”, a disc of wood I had brought him where he had carved circles and dots, which he said represented the constellations of the heavens above. ’When one hunts the dark,’ he said to me, ’one needs light to guide him.’”
BLUE. WIZARDS. REALNESS.
MisbehavingMaiar: Tumblr Archive 