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While the others conversed in muted tones Brendin had wearily sat down against the wall, appreciating the cool touch of the stone.  He hadn’t felt cold in a long time.  It was cold at Ironstorm, where he’d lived before everything had happened, and he missed it.  Quietly he observed the lengthy exchange between Alessio and Nithel and was once again reminded of himself by the youth.  He seemed to believe that no one loved or cared about him.

But he’s done nothing to deserve such neglect, Brendin thought.  He hasn’t caused untold slaughter with a wave of his hand.  And he’s afraid of his fire.

Brendin had sensed when the boy conjured his flames, and noticed him trying to hide it in his robes.  He must not have had anyone to teach him…

Brendin closed his eyes and leaned his head against the stone behind him, trying to recall an image in his mind.  Everything was still a blurry haze.  His actions as a Maere blurred and mixed together, and memories of before were fragments, out of focus.

After a minute of trying Brendin opened his eyes again and sighed resignedly at the ceiling.  He could not remember his mother’s face.

A sudden outburst from the lad brought Brendin’s attention back to Alessio and Nithel.  Nithel had his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

 “I thought no one kept the old legends anymore, but no one else believes in a loving Deity. Why haven’t you rebuilt the Temple? Where are the chosens now? I…”

It sounded vaguely like the beliefs of the Eya, from what Brendin recalled of them.  Maeres believed in no such things except their master, and he could not remember theological debate being prevalent in Ironstorm.  He supposed keeping the wyverns from crossing the Ridge had superceded that concern.

“Are you talking about the High One?” Brendin asked Nithel.  Like Alessio he was curious about an entity who never ceased to love.  Perhaps he could forgive Brendin, if anyone could after what he’d done.