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housesharil said:

"Don't you remember?"

The people of Sharilton did not celebrate the holidays of the Spirits in the way Ivar was accustomed to. There were rarely offerings left, rarely dances and celebrations, and rarely days off. The only one Ivar noted to have significance was Efreet's Day, which usually begat a parade and a feast for all that had been won, grown, and caught despite the hot, dry spirit clime they lived in. He supposed the Great Spirit would be pleased.

He would bother Cline, Driselle and Rowen about it. At first it had been tentative, nervous prodding - a gentle reminder that the spirits deserved their gratitude as well, as the celebration itself was more for the people now than it was for its patron - and they had obliged for the big ones and had forgotten for the small. Now, he was comfortable. Now he was bold and brazen, perching on the railing of the stairs and directing the housestaff for proper ceremonial spirit worship. Offerings, decoration, all of it -- Efreet had always treated Ivar well, and though he could never speak of that, he ensured that others would treat the spirit with the reverence he deserved.

It had been Efreet's Day when the attack upon the manor came. The wildlife had been abuzz, terrified. Stray dogs howled and cats hissed, demanding his attention. There had not been a moment to lose when they had been calm enough to speak in words. He had kicked off of the ground and run along the rooftop, kicking off tile and wrecking stone beneath frantic, spirit arte-powered steps.

Ivar had struck first, knocking the trajectory of the weaponry (he recognized them, he knew he did, spyrix - there had been a shout, his rage had been doubled how dare they did they not know?) but he had not struck last. The poison of the arrows was gone, the archer dead before they struck the ground... but there were others. There were always others. Fighting against spyrix was not a skill he remembered, not a skill he had been old enough to grasp, and he went down in four quick strikes. He had brought knives to a gunfight, and the price had been paid in blood.

It had been Efreet's Day when Ivar's life should have ended.

They had not managed to scrub the blood off the stone, he had lain there mere moments but it had been enough to mark Sharilton forever. It was the moment it had all changed... but Ivar had not died there. Perhaps it had been Cline, or one of the many guards that had rushed to aid him.

Months passed. War waged on. Ivar did not wake. It had been surprising enough for him to live through that. The doctors, recalling how the young man had always managed to find the time to deliver fresh herbs and scold patients for not giving themselves proper time to heal (or pushing themselves enough, as one nurse said while he changed the bandages and smiled a rueful smile) Ivar had been as much a part of the city as the Sharil's themselves... and perhaps that was why moral had begun to drop, after a month had passed. Though the battles had begun to die down, though Nachtigal was beginning to realize just who was caring for the Sharil family and how enraged the people were...

The news that Ivar was not expected to wake again had done more damage to the town than any battle.

And yet, expectations had never been something Ivar had bothered minding. He had always been about the improbable, always about the unexpected.Staff in the room murmured that Ivar's room always felt... damp. Once or twice they had gone in and found things slightly altered, a stone of infinite blue resting on his bedside.

(That's an aquamarine, Ivar would have said. It promotes healing and well being - and it's the favored stone of Undine!)

And so, nearly nine months to the day, as the spirit climes shifted and Undine's day approached, bright green eyes flickered open.

Joy poured forth from the town, though Ivar had been disoriented and far too weak to speak or rise of his own will. The wounds had healed, and all seemed well... until he did speak. Word was sent to the Sharil's, though with tensions high they had been scattered around, to return home.

And Ivar had merely stared, warily as he had all those years ago, at the man before him.

"Don't you remember?"