Do It Again

"You've shrunk, old man."

Cole sighed, shook his head. How very like Vandham to notice when something so insignificant had changed.

"And you've gotten bigger around," he replied. "My wife was pint-sized, so I don't think she'd mind."

"Your wife?" And here the emphasis was on pronoun, not noun. "I thought she was your Driver's wife."

"Well, share and share alike, you know. I'm sure she'd like to meet you now, if she could."

Silently, Cole ran the callused ridge of his thumb over the smooth surfaces of the rings hanging from a piece of cord beneath his cloak. Vandham didn't know, and never truly would, how directly his storied past depended on the long-lost royals of old Torna, sitting stately in a manor by the sea and extending their great abilities to weary travelers of every and any disposition.

The mold had been laid out centuries ago. Those who disliked the processions that upheld the throne made their way out of it, in varyingly dramatic scenes of exit, and found more humanistic work to do. You lended your talents to whoever was willing to hire, and you gave children and misfits a place to belong.

It was work that rolled itself forward, always and ever needing to be done. Cole could get along with that, because it didn't give him time to dwell in the past. He did enough of that with his writing, of course, anyway.

Not everyone could be the principal lead, the final line. Today's world, the world of the Aegis reborn, required leaders who could oppose the Praetorium quietly, but with their full extent of strength.

Minoth would do that, because Flora and Addam had shown him how. Because they'd given him a place to rest, and renew, and set himself up to spiral on.