[Sephiroth]

Ethelgar strolled, hoping to leave his past behind his feet. Living with the woodsmen was nice, safe and peaceful; but once again his heart wanted the freedom only the road could give. Deeply, he feared leaving with dreams of triumph and returning with nightmares of defeat; nevertheless, he left, his sword sheathed, his soul crushed by the need for glory.

Countless days he walked, the sun blinding his eyes, the rain freezing his body. And Ethelgar thought about his friends and family he didn’t see in a decade, about the thieves he fought, and felt lonely. Day after day he expected Death behind the bushes, as a wild beast, a bandit, a hole in the ground. He didn’t fear it, though: the thought of being killed in the middle of nowhere was, in a way, soothing. After all, Death would be a relief from the goals he set for himself – but obviously he wouldn’t give up without a good fight. However, a long distance he roamed, and Falconbeak, the sword he got from his grandparent, did not drink any hostile blood.

And now he was near the village the little people he encountered called The Shire. Ethelgar was not too interested in that kind of place: evidently it was not somewhere good to look for an adventure. Despite that, he paced through the region admiring its beauty, looking for a good place to rest his bones. As he walked, memories came to his mind, thoughts of insignificance and of greatness. If I were a hobbit… and if I were as tall as I am now… I would definitely be a king among them. I have to discover something great in myself… maybe… so I can show everyone how I can be significant. I need to be significant. Everything was distant, blurred, and the man became lost in his thoughts, wandering mindlessly.

But reality came back to him, as he finally perceived an Inn’s door just across the road. He crossed the street and entered without a second thought; his mind once again detached from his body.

“Sir, the sword, please”, said a hobbit, probably the innkeeper. A standard procedure, thought the man. Maybe every city should ask for the weapons before anyone could enter. Maybe anyone shouldn’t carry any weapons at all. But… where could we find glory, fame and…

“Sir… the sword”, recurred the innkeeper, and his voice was a ticket back to the inn.

“Falconbeak you have, sir. I’m sure you’ll keep an eye on it”, Ethelgar nodded, gently giving him the sword.

The man then sat down, his thoughts deep into his memories. It was undeniably a hideous scene: the brown coat was covered in mud; the boots torn; a small scar stained the left side of his face. Despite that, one who could look deep would glance something singular, maybe great about him.

Ethelgar lastly ordered ale and waited, perceiving no one but himself.