You're not yourself.'
'No, I am not. I have lain for two weeks in the sweat of my own nightmares. Yesterday morning I awoke, only to discover that those nightmares are real.' He reached for Baracha's restraining hand. He plucked it free without effort.
'Alhazii… I know nothing, anymore, except that I cannot live with myself, not a second longer, if I do not see this through.'
For a moment, Baracha trembled on the edge of a great rage. His fists clenched, blood inflamed his face: it was what always happened when he failed to get his own way.
Quite unexpectedly, the words of the Blessed Prophet came to his mind.
Do not judge a man for the path that he follows. Unless you have walked each and every step in the same direction, you cannot tell another where he is headed, nor what he leaves behind.
Baracha looked to the sky, then down to the ground, then back to the wizened farlander broken with grief before him.
He blew the frustration from his lungs.
'Then blessing of Zabrihm be upon you, you old fool,' he said. He held out his hand, and Ash squinted at it for a moment, then clasped it.
Baracha strode back to the boat, shaking his head.
'Baracha,' barked Ash.
The big man turned. Ash tugged the urn of ashes free from his pack. He approached and handed it to Baracha.
'Keep this until I return,' he said. 'If I do not make it back, see that it gets to his mother. Aleas will know of her.'
Baracha nodded. With the urn in his hand he jumped into the boat. The sailors pushed off from the wharf side, began to pull at the water with their oars.
As the boat cut through the swell towards the waiting ship, and the salt water slapped and hissed against its sides, Baracha twisted around on the plank he sat upon. He thought, perhaps, to give a final salute to Ash, for he knew then that he would likely never see him again.
But already, the old man had turned to face the city.
