(As recounted by Aurelio)
The old man was just beginning to describe the blistering feel of the practice sword in his raw hands when the cottage door flew open with a bang.
A small, fierce whirlwind with Gerald's wild blonde hair and Alicent's intelligent eyes burst into the room. "Nonno Aurelio! You are forgetting!"
Aurelio's entire face transformed. The grim lines of memory smoothed away, replaced by a deep, fond warmth. "Forgetting what, my little wolf?"
"The Festival of the Last Light! You promised! There are puppets, and honey-cakes, and the men who breathe fire!" The little girl—Alice—stamped her foot, her hands on her hips in a perfect imitation of a scolding matron.
Aurelio laughed, a rich, unburdened sound that seemed to startle the dust in the room. He pushed himself up from his chair with a grunt, sweeping Alice into his arms as if she weighed nothing. She squealed with delight.
"The scholar and I were discussing very important, very old things," he said, his eyes twinkling at me over her shoulder. "But you are right. Some promises are more important than history."
He looked at me. "You will excuse an old man and his charge, Master Scholar? The night is young, and I am being summoned to duty."
"I…" I stumbled, my mind still full of the grim Anvil. "Perhaps… perhaps I could accompany you? To see the festival myself." It was a breach of decorum, but the chance to see this man, this legend, in the world he helped shape was too compelling to ignore.
Aurelio's smile widened. "Of course. A historian should see how the story ends, not just how it began."
The village square was a sea of light and laughter, a world away from the grim tales of the Crow's Nest and the Anvil. Lanterns hung like captured stars, the air thick with the scent of roasting chestnuts and spiced wine. Alice dragged us through the crowd, her small hand trustingly wrapped around Aurelio's gnarled fingers.
I couldn't help myself. As we walked, the questions tumbled out. "Commander Giovanni, the training—what happened after you picked up the sword? How did you and Gerald go from that enmity to the bond you described?"
Aurelio just chuckled, patting Alice's head. "So many questions. You chew on history like a tough piece of meat. Relax, boy. Some stories are best told under the stars, with the taste of honey on your tongue." He bought three honey-cakes from a vendor, handing one to me and one to Alice.
It was then that we saw her. On a small wooden stage, a girl began to perform. She couldn't have been more than sixteen, with a cascade of hair the color of molten silver that caught the lantern light. But it was her eyes that arrested me—a pale, dreamy beige, the color of a misty morning, seeming to look through the crowd and into another world entirely. She moved with an ethereal grace, a series of fluid, silent gestures that told a story of love and loss without a single word.
We watched, transfixed. As her act ended and she bowed to scattered applause, a strange, wistful look crossed Aurelio's face. He looked from the silver-haired girl to the joyful, living face of Alice, and then his gaze grew distant.
"You ask so many questions about war and training, Scholar," he said softly, his voice barely audible above the festival's din. "But you have not asked about the quiet moments. The moments that made the war worth surviving."
He turned to me, his eyes clear and focused. "Have I spoken yet of how we met Alicent?"
My heart leapt. "No, my lord. You have not."
He smiled, a private, tender smile. "It was after Giovanni decided Gerald and I needed to… understand each other. He sent us on a fool's errand to map a stretch of the border river. We were to go together. Alone."
He found a quiet bench overlooking the merry square, settling with Alice drowsing in his lap. The festival continued around us, but his voice carved out a pocket of the past.
— Memory, Resumed —
"It was a disaster from the start," Aurelio began, a laugh in his voice. "Giovanni's idea of diplomacy was to strand two roosters in a pen and see which one survived. Gerald, by then, could form sentences in our tongue, most of them insults. I was no longer the trembling boy from the Crow's Nest, but I was still green. We argued over everything—which path to take, where to make camp, how to cook the damned rabbit we'd caught."
They had been following the winding course of the River Sarno for two days, their mutual hostility a third, unwelcome companion. The argument this time was about a missing waterskin, each accusing the other of losing it.
"It was your stupidity, grove-rat! You were too busy looking at the butterflies to watch our gear!" Gerald snarled, his face flushed.
"And you were too busy trying to look fierce to be of any use!" Aurelio shot back, shoving Gerald's shoulder.
The bigger youth shoved back, harder. Aurelio stumbled, lost his footing on the muddy bank, and tumbled down the incline, pulling Gerald with him in a tangle of limbs and curses. They landed in a heap at the water's edge, soaked and sputtering.
It was there, as they untangled themselves, breathless and furious, that they saw her.
On the opposite bank, a girl was kneeling, filling a clay jug with water. The late afternoon sun caught the rich chestnut of her hair, haloing her in gold. She wore a simple dress of undyed wool, but she carried herself with a grace that spoke of a world beyond the riverbank. She had heard their crashing descent and was staring at them, her hand paused at her task, her eyes—a warm, intelligent brown—wide with startlement.
It was Alicent.
She took in the scene: two soaked, muddy young men, one a scowling Italian and the other a glowering, blonde giant, both looking like drowned and angry cats. A slow, curious smile touched her lips. It was not a smile of mockery, but of genuine, amused wonder.
"Well," she said, her voice as clear and cool as the river water. "Are you two trying to map the river or fight it?"
Aurelio felt the anger drain from him, replaced by a sudden, profound awkwardness. Gerald, for once, was struck silent, his rage forgotten in the face of this unexpected apparition.
She was, Aurelio thought with a clarity that struck him to his core, the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.
— Present —
Aurelio fell silent, looking down at the sleeping Alice, a mirror of her grandmother's spirit. The sounds of the festival seemed to soften around us.
"That was the first time," he whispered, as if sharing a sacred secret. "The first time I saw her."
He looked up at me, his old eyes shimmering with a memory more vivid than any battle.
"And that," he said, his voice thick with a sweet, decades-old ache, "is where the real story began."