With Martin's silence came Bariyan's own. He shifted himself, off his knees, crossing his legs in front of him and straightening his shoulders out. He felt cold, suddenly, drained. Almost at peace. He had come through these lands by himself, yet not alone; every step had brought out more of his guilts and his ghosts. Haunted, berated, hounded the whole way here.

Now all of that was gone -- at least, temporarily so. Now he was quiet. Now he had time to reflect. Time to rest. And he took it, for the first time in a long while. Reflection did not come easily. Rest did. His consciousness slowly emptied itself. Something terribly close to tranquility poured in.

As he contemplated the horizon he reached out to Martin beside him, resting a heavy hand on the boy's shoulder. He could not feel, but the support that Martin's shoulder provided was proof enough that he was here. Bariyan kept seeking that proof, needing constant reassurance. It would take him a while, to fully believe....

And that brought another thing to mind.

"Martin." He turned to the boy, closing his other fist over the medal now chained round his neck. "What do I do with this?"