Chapter 18

" F irst, the question of what I am. As you may have guessed, I am neither fae, nor shifter, nor vampire, nor any kind of heretofore unknown hybrid like yourself. If you absolutely must give me a name, call me an elf. As from Tolkien." A pause. "A lovely and wonderfully interesting man, Tolkien."

"I suppose that makes sense," I say.

"I thought so. My people predate what Zirae has termed the Primi—shifters, fae, and vampires. We are the forebears of the Primi. I'll get to that later. For now, consider this a basic overview. As you have noticed, I do have magic, and as I have said, it is not like yours. And to be clear, my magic is not like that of anyone else among my people either—I've always been a bit of an outlier. A black sheep, you might say. Or, a freak. For one thing, even among my people, immortality is a bit of a misnomer. We do age, just as fae and the other Primi do—just very, very slowly. I, however, for reasons I cannot explain, do not seem to age—at all. When my body reached thirty linear years of age, I simply…stopped aging. I cannot explain it. Like all others, however, I can be harmed by violence but not by illness."

He walks in silence for a while. I walk and wait.

"My magic, then. I told you, I believe, that it works on what you might think of as a larger scope or scale than you may be familiar with. When you look within, how do you see your magic?"

I shrug. "Like an ocean. A vast, turbulent ocean of golden-white light."

A nod. "Ah. I cannot see my magic when I look within, but it's a matter of perspective. When you are on the mountain, you cannot see the mountain, yes?"

I nod. "Well, yes. You're too close."

"Just so. My reservoir of magic is so vast that I cannot see it in total. But that vast potential comes with limitations. You see, when a being such as you or myself or Zirae possesses great power, it must come in a package. Being fallible creatures with a limited grasp on dimension and even more limited creativity, we cannot have raw, unformed power. All that magic must have a shape. You understand?"

I nod and shrug. "Sure."

"Essentially, it becomes specialized. One develops an affinity for or a skill in something particular. Zirae's was that…oh gods, what did he call it? Something ridiculous. Loop of undeath or something?"

"Coil of Undying Death." I shudder. "Fucking horrible."

"He subjected you to it, then?"

I nod. "Oh yes. He did."

"He could do other things, of course. But that was his specialty. He devoted a lot of time to perfecting it. And it was quite effective. I allowed him to practice it on me, once. A rather unpleasant experience, I must say."

"You think?"

He glances at me. "Are you familiar with the Fates?"

I bob my head from side to side. "A little bit. Immortals discuss them as if they're real people out there somewhere, watching and manipulating the lives of mortals and immortals. But I'm not sure if they're real or a legend or just a myth. People tend to blame a lot of things on them, I've noticed." I look at him. "Why?"

"Well, for one, they're real. They, along with me, are the last survivors of our race. They, like me, possess power of such immensity that it must be specialized to a very, very specific thing. For the Fates, their power is one of perspective. They see lives as threads in a tapestry. Instead of seeing each person as an individual, they perceive lives as threads. This impersonality is what allows them to do what they do. Which is to manipulate events—they are not omniscient or omnipotent. They provide guidance…nudges, you might say. And they do so with detached, observational benevolence. They are not good or evil, but impartial, with a general bent toward goodness. They do tend to focus on the lives of mortals, however, mostly because immortals can feel their influence—we elders especially—and we don't like being influenced like that. Mortals cannot feel the touch of the Fates."

"Can you give me an example?" I ask.

He tips his head to one side. "I can try. Think of…a man. A mortal male. He's lonely. He desires a mate. He wishes for companionship, physical and emotional intimacy, someone to trust and share life with. This man is walking down the street. His view of his life, necessarily, is limited. He cannot see past the moment in front of him. But the Fates can. And they see that if this man turns left at the upcoming intersection, he will trip over something on the sidewalk and, in so doing, bump into a beautiful woman—or man. This interaction will set him along a path of discovering the love he's been seeking with that person. If he had gone straight at the intersection or turned right, he would not have encountered that person. The Fates, then, nudge him to turn left."

"But they can't see everyone in the whole world all the time?"

"Of course not. As I said, they're not all-knowing or all-seeing. They just see, know, and can do vastly more than anyone else."

"Except you."

"No. Not except me. They cannot influence me because I know them and I know the feel of their magic, but I cannot see as they do. My magic is different, and personal to me."

"What do you specialize in, then?"

He smiles. "A good portion of my magic is dedicated to memory."

I frown at him. "Memory?"

"Yes. Being as old as I am, and having lived a life among the mortals, except for my regular hiatuses away, without magic I could never retain all of the knowledge, skills, and memories I have acquired. It's part of why most immortals get age-sick—their minds are full. They cannot ingest any more experience. I have had to learn an alternative because I, for good or ill, am addicted to living."

"Well, you're gonna have to elaborate, then." I smile at him. "But, I do like that you're still addicted to living after, what, ten, twelve thousand years?"

He smiles, shrugs. "Perhaps closer to thirteen, but it's impossible to know for sure. And it doesn't matter. What's a millennium against eternity?"

I cackle. "To someone who hasn't made it a quarter of a century yet, a fucking lot."

"Fair." He goes silent for a minute and then continues. "So, my memory storage structures. Silos, you might think of them. Over time, I've devised a system of off-loading memory. Sort of like compressing a computer file and storing it in the cloud."

I blink at him. "You're familiar with computers?"

He shrugs. "Sure. They're fascinating. As much magic to me as my magic would be to a mortal. I love them. Anyway. You might think of my mind—" he taps his temple, "as a library. And, like a library, there is an organizational system. So, if I would like to access a memory from my youth, I would enter my memory—it would look like meditation to you—and go to the section dedicated to personal memories. I haven't got everything stored, of course, just the important stuff. Things like the endless days of walking where nothing happens, or eating a meal without any significance, or other such meaningless detritus I allow myself to forget. Meeting you, for example, will be stored in the important memory area." He smiles at me.

"Other sections," he continues, "include magic—meaning glamours, spells, skills, and such. Physical skills like construction, medicine, combat, and the like are another section. I have a whole section dedicated to notable quotes, another to geography—memories of specific places, and mental maps of places I've been."

"So when you want to remember something, you can't just 'remember it,' you have to intentionally find it and recall it."

He nods. "Yes. It's not a technique I invented, I just added magic to it. But holding the structure and retaining the organization requires a good deal of constant magical drain."

"Is it something you have to focus on all the time? Or is it, like, just running in the background?"

"It's more in the background. I've been maintaining it for so long at this point that I'm not even aware of it. It's not like casting a glamour or telelocating. It's subtle."

"You mentioned physical skills like combat, medicine, and construction."

"Yes. I live among mortals the majority of the time. Like modern fae, I use a mask to hide my features. I assume an identity—whatever interests me at that time and in that place. I've been many, many things over the years. A healer, a doctor, or a surgeon, depending on the terminology of the time. I've been a soldier—it's the simplest path, usually, because most quirks and oddities are overlooked in warfare as long as you kill the enemy effectively. I've been a trader, a merchant, a mercenary…there isn't much I haven't done, at one point or another. I've never been a king or emperor or a lord or any other kind of ruler—such things do not suit me. I have no interest in ruling people. I've seen what it does to even the most well-intentioned person."

"That's interesting to me," I say. "I'd think you'd want to take a stab at being king at some point."

"I have been offered a throne on more than a few occasions and have been tempted, I admit. But your turn of phrase, to take a stab at, is an apropos one. When one is in charge, you will earn the hatred of someone, and inevitably that someone will try to take a stab at you. And if I'm going to fight, I'd like to know who my enemy is, keep them in front where I can see them, and defeat them on my terms. A king cannot do that. So no, no crown or throne for me."

"Out there," I say, "the immortals call me the WorldBreaker and the Once-Mortal Queen. I'm sort of being looked to by the immortals to create something out of the chaos. But it comes with built-in enemies—immortals who don't want to be ruled and mortals who hate immortals."

Aeon glances at me. "WorldBreaker and Once-Mortal queen? That's you, eh? That old prophecy?"

"So it would seem. You know about it?"

He nods. "Well, certainly. Galenova, the woman who gave the prophecy, was a good friend of mine. Galenova was never wrong, but her prophecies were often rather vague and could be quite difficult, if not impossible, to make sense of."

"So far, all it's done is put me in an impossible position."

"Galenova would tell you to ignore it and just live your life. You cannot influence the future—you can only live in the now. Of course, every action you take changes the future, but that's unknowable—even for seers like Galenova. Even the Fates can only see into the very near future. She would always warn her listeners not to place too much stock in prophecies. They're often only of any value in hindsight."

I bark a laugh. "That actually helps, Aeon. Thank you."

"Glad to be of some small service." He looks around us—our surroundings are not much changed. Rolling green hills, a blue sky dusking into orange and red and purple as the sun sets.

"Tell me more about the Fates," I say.

He nods. "Very well."

He lowers himself to the ground cross-legged and cups his palms over the ground, concentrating. An orange glow blossoms between his palms and the ground and then grows and grows, brightens and brightens—remaining orange-yellow rather than the delicate, hypnotic blue. When he removes his hands, the flames dance and lick and reach for the sky, looking for all the world like normal fire.

I eye him. "It's not blue."

"Well, no. It's not mage-flame. The blue comes from my magic—part of the telelocating glamour. This is just regular old fire."

"But then…what is it feeding off of? There's no wood."

A grin. "Magic."

I roll my eyes at him. "No shit, Sherlock."

"Oh, you wanted technical details? Essentially, I create a dense, compressed ball of maya, plant it just under the surface of the soil, and then ignite it. It burns slowly, and, by nature, only consumes the magic, so it won't spread to our surroundings. I'd hate to cause a grass fire out here."

I nod, thinking through how I'd do it if I had my magic. "Neat. I bet I could figure that one out on my own."

"I'm sure you could."

"Yeah, if I could get rid of these fucking things." I shake my wrists.

"That was Zirae's other specialty—constraining magic. He created mage-cuffs, you know." He taps the bracelet on my left wrist. "I've been examining these. I think I know how to solve the issue, but as I've said, my magic doesn't work that way. But once we find someone who can do what must be done, it should be a simple matter."

"Where will you find the right person?" I ask.

He shrugs, smiles. "Oh, we will. I have a few individuals in mind. We just have to get to them."

"By crossing the entire world …on foot?"

He nods. "Well, yes. How else? I'll telelocate us again when I can. Tomorrow or the next day. It has a range of a few hundred kilometers. A thousand, at most. And as I've said, it's imprecise. I cannot specify where we emerge, so it can be dangerous. I could bring us out in the bottom of the ocean or the top of a mountain, and we'd be in a worse position. I can only do it in open areas like this, never in a populated area."

"I see." I sigh. "So, we walk."

"So, we walk." He considers in silence, watching the fire. "So, the Fates. It's a good way to introduce our next topic—a broad overview of immortal history, specifically the parts that have been forgotten by modern immortals."

"Zirae is modern to you?"

He nods, shrugs. "Well, yes. I was already several thousand years old when I met him as a child. He was a devious, obnoxious little shit. A spoiled brat with more power than sense who had never been told no. At the core, he was never anything but a bully."

"Damn straight," I say. "When I was about to beat him, he ran away. I mean sure, I suppose discretion is the better part of valor and all, but…it just seemed like a bitch move."

"A bitch move," Aeon echoes, grinning. "Exactly. Most of his moves were bitch moves." A wave of his hand. "Anyway. The Fates predate me by a thousand years or so. A generation, essentially. They are the last of what you might call the direct descendants of the Nephilim themselves, whereas I am descended two generations removed."

"Nephilim?"

He nods. "I must go back." He holds his hands over the fire and wiggles his fingers—the fire flares, crackles, sparks, and jumps several feet higher, giving off intense heat and bright yellow light that casts dancing shadows behind us. "This is my personal belief, mind you—even we, of that time, never knew the truth—not for sure. It was nearly forgotten even by our time. But I believe that all immortals are descended from a single stock—angels who bred with the first humans. This is mentioned in passing in the mortal Bible. When the angels procreated with the humans, they created a new species—humans with superhuman abilities granted by their partially angelic heritage.

"As time went on, the Nephilim continued to make children, and those children of the Nephilim intermarried with each other and with mortals. Eventually, six distinct tribes were formed. They had names for themselves, and I knew them once, but I've forgotten—or, if I do retain the knowledge, it's somewhere in the library and it would take too much time and effort to retrieve, and it wouldn't mean anything you anyway since it's a long-dead language, like my own first tongue.

"Centuries wore on, and then millennia. Mortals came and went, formed civilizations and societies, merged, mingled, and died out. The children of the Nephilim began to realize that with their great powers and long lives came a caveat—limited fertility. Children were rare. For every immortal who was born, there were a thousand mortals, if not more. It was a kind of balance—nature's way. It became clear that they were all dying out. Fewer and fewer children were being born. Why? Studies were conducted by the learned ones, and the answer became clear quite soon: the tribes refused to interbreed or marry across tribal lines. Inbreeding exacerbated the infertility, and so the tribes shrank and shrank until the learned ones gave the tribes an ultimatum—or rather, presented the truth everyone had been ignoring. Die out, or procreate across tribal lines."

"Sounds familiar," I say.

"Exactly. What modern immortals face is an age-old choice. Get over yourselves or die out."

"I assume they chose door number one."

"Correct. The six tribes began to intermarry and interbreed, and eventually, the six tribes were reduced to three—what you now know as fae, shifters, and vampires."

"The original six—were their abilities different?"

Aeon nods. "Of course. With every crossing of tribal lines, the resulting children possessed different abilities and changing powers. Increasing, usually, with counterbalancing limitations. The original six tribes were divided by their unique properties." He lists them, ticking them off on his fingers. "Elemental, with subdivisions by element; magic, somewhat akin to modern fae, focusing on creative glamours and spells; combat, or offensive magic; healing; divination, or seers and prophets; and heightened physical ability, or supernatural strength, speed, healing factor, and such."

"I can see where the intermarriages created the Primi as we now know them," I say.

"Indeed, indeed. Some abilities mostly died out, such as divination. A few Primi possess the ability in a minor way, but nothing like those original children of the Nephilim. But there was a trade-off—a seer, for example, usually did not have any other real powers. No strength, speed, ability to wield combat magic, or healing. Modern fae have a lesser potential in one thing as a trade for greater potential in many things."

"And the Fates, then, are Seers?"

He nods. "Yes, but they are the first generation produced by intermarriage—the divination tribe with the glamour tribe."

"And you?"

"I am from the interim period before the tribes merged into three, but after they began intermarrying. My mother was from the elemental tribe and my father from the glamour tribe—both were among the most powerful ever born to those tribes, and I am the result." He waves a hand. "More on me later. You asked about the Fates. They are, like me, truly ageless—I assume it's a fluke, a genetic oddity. Their powers, as I have said, are the ability to see and manipulate the threads of lives of mortals and immortals. There are three of them, sisters. Their names are lost to the fog of time. But more so, because their other great ability is…call it a…" he frowns. "Hmmm. I suppose 'distortion field' is the best I can come up with."

"Distortion field? Also, it sounds like you don't know very much about them—I thought you said you knew them."

He smiles, tipping his head to one side. "I believe I have met them, have had conversations with them. What I have termed a distortion field is a passive magical ability they have little or no control over—I feel, without any real evidence, that they can probably reduce or increase the power of the effect field, but I do not think they can negate it entirely. Essentially, you might run into them, talk to them, see them, and even know them for who they are, and while you're with them, everything is normal. But once you leave and you're no longer in their physical presence, you forget. It's a sort of passive, involuntary memory-phage."

"Memory-phage?"

"That's a glamour that erases memory. Immortal glamourists have been using it to cover up evidence of our existence since time began. There are different versions and different methods, but essentially they are all the same, downstream—cast a spell, and the subject, or victim if you prefer, will forget certain things. Depending on the power and skill of the caster, the effects can be precise or general, narrow or sweeping. The trick with a memory-phage is that the glamour must be intentionally ceased or it will simply keep going, eating away more and more memory. Theoretically, if left unchecked, a memory-phage could erase a person entirely—make them unable to form any memories at all, leaving them…well, a vegetable, more or less."

Something clicks. "Oh!" I snap my fingers. "That's what happened!"

He blinks at me. "Hmm?"

"Oh, um, well, I told you about my fight with the Tribunal and IRRC forces in Manhattan. And how it was livestreamed by a mortal and went viral. Well, the mortal who recorded the video was eventually tracked down, but she's like you said—catatonic. Mortal doctors couldn't figure it out—there was no obvious trauma, no illness, no discernable reason for her condition. I don't know if she was examined by immortal doctors —if she was, it was never publicized. But a memory-phage makes sense."

He nods. "The Tribunal uses them quite frequently, yes. In the case of a large-scale event as you describe, standard operating procedure would be to send shock troops in to deal with the problem, supported by mages for defensive reasons and to supplement the offensive measures, followed by a single or a pair of mages whose role is to cast a memory-phage so the mortals won't' remember what happened. It's a specifically calibrated glamour that has been carefully designed and attuned to erase only a very narrow window of memory, so the affected mortals will just have a fuzzy notion of something having happened, but not what—and eventually, unable to remember, they choose to ignore the hole in their memory. But, if that glamourworker is interrupted by, say, death or injury before he or she has a chance to finish the glamour, it would simply keep phaging. It is rare, but it does happen."

"And the Fates have this thing happening all the time?" I ask.

He nods. "Yes. I think it is quite a burden for them. The moment you leave their presence, you forget them. They cannot marry. Cannot take lovers. Cannot be apart from each other for even one hour. It makes them truly impartial and objective, I suppose, but it seems a very lonely life."

"God, that would be…" I try to imagine it and shudder. "Awful."

He nods. "I have much sympathy for them." He looks away into the night, and I think he is seeing the past.

"You've never had a mate?" I ask, after a while.

A slow, soft sigh. "Mate? No, no." He is silent again for a while. Looks at me. Considers. "Truth?"

I nod. "Always."

"I believe I was mated to one of the Fates. I deduce this by a long gap in my memory. There is a period of…." another long sigh, this one thoughtful, ruminative. "Oh, probably two thousand years where I have no memory." He taps his temple. "The library up here is also organized chronologically. I've spent, oh, decades at a time, sorting through my memories surrounding that period, and the gap is undeniable. I can trace languages learned, wars fought, notable figures met, advances in technology, and major historical events from before and after it, and the gap is quite large. At least two thousand years. The only explanation that I have ever come up with that explains it is that I met the Fates, became lovers with one of them, and remained with them constantly for the duration of the memory gap. My memory suddenly and inexplicably picks up with me in a desert, alone. Here, as a matter of fact."

"Ahhhh," I singsong. "The truth comes out."

He glances at me. "What truth?"

"The reason you have claimed the Gobi as yours."

He blinks at me. "What?"

I laugh. "Oh, come on, Aeon. You can't be that dense."

He blinks. Seems almost offended. "I've no idea what you mean."

I stare at him. "Twelve thousand years old, ageless, magic so immense and powerful you can't manage a simple pair of magic-restricting cuffs, yet you're that unself-aware?"

"Maeve." He looks away, jaw hard, eyes narrowed. "If you have a revelation for me, please share it."

I lean close to him, shoulder to shoulder—the sizzle of endorphins and hormones searing through me is disorienting. "I'm not mocking you or teasing you, Aeon. You're just so wise and ancient it seems weird and implausible that you could be so lacking in self-awareness." My head droops until his shoulder is supporting me. "You came back to this desert because it's the last place you were before your memory goes out. You hope to find them again. Or maybe get your money back."

He goes very still and silent for a very long time. "Gods and blood," he whispers. "You're right. How could I be so obtuse?"

"We all have blind spots, Aeon. And sometimes we willfully dupe ourselves into believing things, or we refuse to admit the truth because it is inconvenient or painful. Because that seems easier. I was in a kind of numb denial for a long time after my mom died. I couldn't mourn. I could barely admit that she was dead." I lift my head to look at him from a few inches away, noting the frown lines between his eyes, the creases beside his mouth. "I can see how if you spent two thousand years with someone and can't remember any of it, you might go seeking the place you last remember being with them, or as close as you can come. But it's too painful to think about too much, so you don't. You just find comfort in the desert."

"Who's wise now?" He asks.

He turns his head, and now his eyes, amethyst and endless, fix on mine. See into me. For a moment, the ageless, almost god-like immortal is gone, replaced by a mere man. A male who has loved and lost, who has been much alone, and perhaps even feels hesitancy to admit his loneliness. I see a being who has wandered this earth for twelve thousand years…most of it alone.

But why?

"Don't," he murmurs.

I frown. "Don't what?"

"Ask me the question I see in your eyes."

"Why not?"

He brushes the pad of his thumb over my lips, sending sparks shivering down my spine, making my nipples stand on end like diamonds, my core heat.

From one simple, innocent touch.

"Because I know the answer, and you're not ready for it."

The urge to take his thumb between my teeth and taste his skin is overwhelming. The urge to bury my fingers in his hair and yank him to me and kiss him until we're both breathless is overpowering.

"Maeve, don't. I'm warning you." Despite his words, his eyes tell a different story. As do the way his fingertips dance over my cheekbone, my temple, curve behind my ear.

If I didn't know better, I'd say the way I'm feeling is magical. I mean, there's no way I can feel this way naturally, right? As in mere human attraction?

I've been denying it and repressing it and refusing to examine my feelings because they scare me and I don't want them and I don't want another mate and I don't want the complication that I know must come with being with a man like Aeon.

Cat's out of the bag, now, though.

Now that I've admitted I want to kiss him, it feels like I've opened Pandora's Box.

His jaw is sharp and hard and angular under my palm. His lips are soft against the pad of my thumb. His skin is smooth and naturally stubble-free.

"You can't grow a beard?"

He huffs a laugh. "That's your question?"

"Mmmm," I acknowledge, too taken in by the counterpoint of his soft skin and hard jaw, soft lips and sharp eyes. "Yes?"

"No, my people don't grow beards. I could glamour one, but it wouldn't be real."

"You can perform a transverse telelocation. You can conjure mage-flame. You can organize your memories in a physical library in your mind. You can glamour yourself a beard…"

"Yes, he says, leading. "But?"

"But you can't get these off me?" I shake my wrist in front of his eyes. Firelight glints off the sickly, oil-slick, color-swirling metal, diffusing and refracting and casting unnatural reflections on the grass at our feet.

"My magic doesn't work that way."

"It sure seems to, except in this."

"You don't understand."

"No! I don't! And you won't explain it!"

"I can't!"

"Can't? Or won't?"

"Is there a difference?"

"Yes!" I shout, scrambling away from him and to my feet. "Yes, there fucking is! If you physically, magically, are unable to speak about it, that's 'can't.' If you are simply unwilling to for whatever reason, that's 'won't.' Seems like a pretty obvious distinction to me."

"Maybe it's bigger than that, Maeve. Maybe it's bigger than you."

"What could be bigger than me that requires you to not tell me why you can't or won't help me?"

"I am helping you!" He shoots to his feet, eyes blazing, shifting from piercing purple to luminous blue. "I took you from the desert. I'm taking you to someone who can work the magic needed to get you out of those cuffs."

I turn away, squeezing my eyes shut against tears. "I don't…" They fall anyway—normal tears, no glow, no blood. "I don't know what's happening to me. I went from a normal girl to not a normal girl. Then from thinking I'm a normal immortal to realizing I'm not even a normal one of those! And now the whole fucking world is depending on me and looking at me and watching me and placing expectations on me and hating me and fearing me, and I barely know the first thing about my own people! I know nothing about our history. I know nothing about ruling or about leading! I'm nineteen ! I was raised in the modern mortal world. I should be wearing pajama pants to eight AM. Civics classes at a university somewhere. I should be worried about joining a sorority. I should be studying for tests in some library and drinking too much and having a pregnancy scare." I fling an arm at the world at large. "I should not be carrying the weight of the future of the entire race of human beings on my fucking back!"

I stomp away, digging the heels of my palms into my eyes.

I feel him behind me. "Don't, Aeon."

"Don't comfort you?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I shouldn't be attracted to you. I shouldn't want you. I don't! I don't want you. I don't want to be attracted to you. You're fucking complicated, and you're a major fucking complication on my life, and if you can't tell, my life is fucking complicated enough as it is." I whirl in place, and my hair slaps him in the face—he gathers it in his fist, wrapping the length of it around his palm, and steps into me. "Aeon, please —don't."

"Don't what, Maeve Sparrow?"

"Kiss me."

"I'm not. You're kissing me." His lips move against mine.

Damn it.

He's right. I'm the one who lifted up on my toes.

I wrench myself away from him with a high-pitched gasp of effort, hating the arousal so obvious in the sound. Hate the way my sex clenched when he wrapped my hair around his fist. Hate the way his lips, for a split second, felt so right against mine.

I start walking, not caring which way I go—it doesn't matter. Just away.

"Maeve," he calls out. "That way." I glance back at him, and he's pointing ninety degrees to the way I'm going.

I adjust my direction, but otherwise. ignore him.

I walk for hours. I feel him behind me, but he gives me space.