Wood decayed into charcoal; charcoal glowed as embers; embers burst forth as licks of flame; flames reached up and vanished into the void. Death drives activity, while futility beggars life until it ends.

  It was a philosophy I never much liked, but it had been growing in popularity among the youth at Docet Barrington. Every few years the trends wavered between pessimism and optimism, and nihilism sometimes slipped in on both sides. It seemed to me that a philosophy that could be interpreted multiple ways from identical evidence based solely on the whims of the observer was ill-defined, but that was probably why I was a historian.

  It was the third night of our journey together, when our routine was just feeling established.

  Drifter stared into the embers a third of a turn around the fire from me, a cup of weak nettle tea clasped between his hands. Not particularly close to me, not facing me from the opposing side. In a way, he was as distant as possible from me around this tiny fire.

  This irritated me, so I thought to irritate him with conversation.

  "What's your name, anyways? I don't quite know who to thank for saving me."

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  Drifter let the question grow awkward in the air before responding, "I don't know."

  How many in this world could be said to forget their own name, and why? Or, perhaps, were born without one to begin with? It had to be the smallest of handfuls. A name is a consequence of interacting with others; of being a member of a social species. "What do others call you, then?"

  "They don't."

  "Fascinating." The more I interacted with this man, the more closely he rode the line between human and other. I could see anguish hidden in the lines of his face, discomfort, very human emotions, and yet every action and experience I seemed to pull out of this man tugged at my assumptions of how a human being should be.

  His eyes shifted over to me while his face moved not an inch. How could I interpret the expression? Curiosity, a guarded interest, wary acknowledgement? Regardless, I seemed to have succeeded in engaging my savior in conversation, so I wanted to press my advantage.

  "Well I should call you something." His reaction, if any, was minimal. "Do you do a lot of traveling? Any place you call home?"

  "Yes. And no."

  "A vagabond, then, wandering from place to place without end. Except everyone already refers to Varys as 'The Vagabond,' so we should have something else..." I let the thought hang for a second. I had a dozen words in mind, but I wanted to see if one came to my companion. It is only natural that a being that could claim godhood could choose his own name.

  My patience paid off, for very quickly he muttered "Drifter" under his breath.

  "Then we'll go with Drifter."

  I could have sworn something lightened in his expression in that moment. Alas, words cannot quite capture a face.