Praetorian Rising

remember the old man?  Or dismiss him as a stranger? Vesyon couldn't be sure. His eyes traversed the broad lines of the man's face with grave worry, not wanting to throw his old friend into the storm of chaos she would invoke, yet knowing he had few other options.
"You weren't followed?" Peter asked although he knew the answer. Vesyon wouldn't be in his home if he’d been tracked. It didn't mean they were safe, only that they had a little time to discuss details. Vesyon shook his head before setting the young sleeping woman down on the fire-warmed hearth and wrapping fur blankets securely around her shoulders.
The old man's living quarters were nothing more than a single room: kitchen, living room, and bedroom, all scarcely lit by a swinging bulb over the kitchen table and the glowing fire in the corner. Electricity was a luxury in the rundown villages of Aspera, but Sierra Village made do with what it had. Aside from the electric icebox in his butchery, Peter kept his home largely stripped of those technological advancements the wealthier villagers possessed. The old man wasn't one for fancy. He had a simple and functioning home and it was a welcoming stop after Vesyon’s long, brutal journey through the wilderness of Aspera.
Above their heads, through the latticework, was an attic large enough for Peter’s eight-year-old grandson. Young Lunci’s soft snores drifted down to Vesyon’s sensitive ears pushing a momentary smile across his stern features. Despite Vesyon’s impromptu appearance, the kid slept through the commotion, for which Vesyon was grateful. The details he was about to unload onto Peter wouldn’t be well-suited for a young boy’s mind.
"You really shouldn't be here," Peter said, his tone strained yet friendly. Trespassers weren't welcome in the village, and Vesyon knew the consequences of being caught inside the grounds by the wrong person.
"I had little choice as my message relayed to you," he replied smoothly. Which was almost true, but he wasn't ready to think over the details of his decision. Few were trusted by Vesyon, and Peter was a hardened man through experience, but his wide-open heart offered unending compassion for those without a leg to stand on. Leaving the girl in Peter's hands was the safest choice imaginable.
Peter's lips parted, his features laced with hesitation. Nodding at the sleeping girl, he asked, "You really think she's ready for this? For what position you’re about to put her in?"
It was a substantial question. Vesyon wasn't sure of the answer himself. He sat down on a wicker stool, pulling the heavy fur cloak from his shoulders. The heat billowing from the hearth felt good. He closed his eyes for a moment of peace within the comfort of warmth.
Removing a rusted poker from its hook on the wall, Peter shuffled the coals in the hearth with quick, sharp stabs, stoking the smoldering wood into a soft flame. A smile curled the corners of Vesyon's lips as he observed Peter through the hooded sweep of his sooty lashes. Despite the frailty implied by age-spotted hands and knobby knuckles, the man held his own.
Approving of his freshly stoked fire, Peter nodded once before grabbing a plate of meat slices from the kitchen table and offering them to Vesyon. Politely declining, Vesyon finally replied, "I have no idea."
Pulling a worn pipe from his cloak, Vesyon opened a thin canvas bag filled with the dried leaves of his favorite tobacco. He carefully pressed the delicate bits into the pipe’s mouth and stared into the dancing flame in the hearth with a sense of momentary calm that he knew wouldn't last. The second he walked out the door, the chaos would consume him again. It was only a few minute’s reprieve—a moment to catch his breath—he told himself even as his legs twitched to be on the move again.
"LeMarc had her locked in his dungeon for the past seven years," Vesyon said, his voice tinged with a hint of vexation as he pulled a knife and flint stone from his pocket.
He ignored Peter's stern glare at the disrespectful use of the High King's first name. Vesyon would never think of LeMarc Lowenhaar as a king, let alone the High King of Aspera. The man was a deceitful, power-hungry monster. Vesyon saw no reason to show the man any sort of respect, whether in his presence or not.
"We honestly can't be certain of anything." Vesyon lit his pipe and puffed three times in quick succession to catch flame on the dried leaves. The sweet tang of tobacco smoke filled Vesyon's lungs, and he sighed in relief at the tingling sensation buzzing through his veins as he exhaled.
Peter's gaze shifted to the bundle of fur by the hearth and landed on the heavy brown boots poking out the bottom. "She looks so fragile. Is there no other option? No one else?"
Vesyon studied the girl’s delicate features bronzed by the glow of the fire. Peter was right; despite her age, she looked too young and innocent for battle. She was someone he’d give his life for; Vesyon hated knowing what she was about to endure. "She's all we have. Our rebellion can't wait a second longer—she must be prepared."
"How long will she be here?" Peter whispered, pulling the fur blankets more securely around the young woman. Bitter fall air seeped through a cracked windowpane, and Peter shivered. Vesyon wondered if it was from the weather or the burden he'd just heaped onto the old man's shoulders. "It's going to take time to assess how destructive her induced amnesia is. From what Langhorn expressed to me, she might not remember anything at all."
Vesyon's upper lip twitched at Peter's probing words, a subtle tic of the displeasure he tried to hide. Hopefully, Langhorn had succeeded in obliterating everything the girl had endured over the last seven years.  If she was lucky, she’d wake up without recalling the smallest detail of her life before that point. It was cruel to rip away someone's identity, but they'd had