“These fields welcome the lost.” The old man’s voice grated feebly on the winds, and he slouched subtly against his makeshift cane. His shoulders were weak and stiff beneath the gray blanket he had wound around himself, his hands bone-thin and eaten by the sun. His eyes, stone-gray and pouched between layers of crows’ feet, did not turn upon Artemas, as though transfixed by the streaming countryside below.

The elder’s look of wistfulness befuddled the younger man. The view might indeed have been breathtaking, had Artemas a mind for such things. Wintergreens jutted up like awkward sentries amid the runs of fields fed by a spring sun; the streaks of flowers lent their glory, some pale-faced while others bloomed with gregarious reds and swirls of midnight purple. There were many colors – far too many – from the quiet corn-yellows to the harsh gold of wheat stalks, the deep burgundy of wine and more greens than he could count. Blues dotted the slumbering hillsides ahead of him – flowers he did not know the names of – ripe and out-of-reach as the afternoon sky.

Delphina would like these. The warm reminder of his daughter brought Artemas a joy he had thought long gone, as though the edges of his heart had caved into a secret smile. Delphina would delight in the idea of stealing a piece of the heavens, sheltering the petals of its soul within her cupped hands. I am holding the sky, Papa. He could almost hear the ring of her words, solemn and certain, as though she had discovered for herself the mysteries of the world.

He would gather some for her, and if it were not for his brittle-boned companion the decisive thought would have sent him rushing over the mountainside, running with the wind propelling him toward the twinkle-eyed blossoms. Gods knew how he had missed his little Delphina, with her serious eyes and ready laughter – how he had missed all of them. Matteo would be nearly grown by now, but not old enough yet to resist a tale of voyage told by the fire; Artemas’ own, this time. And Aemilia… the absence of her calm words and soft charm had been a heavy toll, but no more. He would sweep her in his arms and together they would name Delphina’s flowers, those shining speckles of the skies.

He was home again. And yet… was this home?

How long had he been gone? Seven, eight years, or was it more, far beyond what he could measure on his fingers?

Suddenly Artemas was not so sure of anything, and yet the cold fear he had anticipated did not come on the heels of helplessness. Surely he would have remembered the path he took, the beaten roadside on which the old man had greeted him. But there was nothing beyond these fields, achingly familiar and yet far gone, like the fleeting memory of a sweet dream.

“You are lost, aren’t you?” The old man was squinting at him now. It wasn’t as much of a question as an answer half-complete; a scholarly father egging his son on toward the final solution. He swept a feeble arm outward, as though to will the hazy meadows nearer, the labyrinth of flowers with their myriad hues. “No place else to go, have you?”

Was he lost? Had he chosen this road himself, the strange plains with the grasses unknown to him? Besieged by meekness, Artemas could find no answer. Surely he had had a place, a house, a calling. But this place held no reality of home – not the way he had remembered it. At home he could smell the sea; hadn’t their cottage looked out upon the shore, gold-lit in the sun? Home was filled with the beat of the tide and the clean scent of wind on water. There were the bells of docks and fishermen, cloth left out to dry on ropes, the sounds of children scurrying through the sand to gather rocks and shells… There was an echo of kind words and the sweetest of joys.

But there were other places too, places Artemas thought so distant from that home of light and laughter that they made up another world. The pictures swam before his eyes, faint sounds of brawl and darkness. There were tense smiles and secret voices in this other place – this other home. Scarred legs and clothing worn and weathered; garments marked by sweat and spear. There was a glint of hard steel – a sun more brutal than he had thought possible – and the aroma of blood roasting in the sands…

“Ah; no need to dwell so far back.” The old man’s voice was a sigh on the wind of memory, indistinct as a dragonfly’s wings on a summer day. Artemas barely heard him; his head was filled with clouds of loss and dread, iron-clawed fear and sharp, thumping pain… A haze of voices, faces – looming and far-flung, as though painted by smoke. Screams, shouts, orders, the shriek of metal… and then a hope, a dream powerful and blooming, longing so painful it made his eyes sting and stole the breath from his lungs.

He knew where home was. One glimpse into Aemillia’s soulful eyes… the strength and confidence aglow on Matteo’s youthful face… an image of Delphina, lining pictures on the shore with childish fingers. Those other sounds, memories like bitter stone, had thinned to a hard knot in the pit of his spirit – the ghost of an ancient bruise.

Because he was coming home.

The next time Artemas turned, words springing like seeds to his mouth, he found that the elder had withdrawn, bowed back already turned toward the hills they had traversed. He had a thousand questions, a hundred words of gratitude to give… and a wish, strong and restless and eager to find its home.

He was running before he knew it, his breath catching in his throat and clogging the words he would have spoken. Thank you, he wanted to shout to the nameless old man, to the sky, to the pathless fields that opened before him. I’m free, he would have called, had laughter not come to snatch the words. I’ve found my way.

Wind chased his hair, its flower-scented breath warming his skin. Delighted, Artemas sucked in air, listening to the pull of grass against his ankles, the way his mirth appeared to extend with every footfall.