The sky was endless, eternal gray. From it fell an alternating mixture of snow and rain, lightly enough that it was not a hindrance, cold enough that it was an added torment. Night was still several hours away, but with the sky as it was, it may as well have been dusk. The world seemed wrapped almost completely in silence, broken only by the crackling of the torches as the snow and the rain died to their flames. Solemnly, Lukrin envied the moisture's fate.

In two straight lines down the center of the main road, everyone in the village stood facing one another. Everyone except the children, of course. They wouldn't understand. But every woman and every man above the age of The Learning was gathered there. Some were angry, some were annoyed, some were merely expressionless, but only two showed any sign of sadness. Lukrin, standing in the center at the beginning of the lines, was one. Mznabi, standing in the right-hand line near the far end, was the other.

As one, both lines suddenly and without a motion broke into the familiar chant, an appeasement to or invocation of their ancient gods. The chant, as it did every night in the Temple, rose in volume and intensity until Lukrin thought his ears would burst, only to die down with frightening suddenness. Lukrin knew what to do. He had been well-instructed before the ceremony, and had been warned in no uncertain terms the punishment for failing to fulfill his duty. Lukrin sighed heavily and took a step forward.

The first person on the left-hand line was Elder Ghora, the oldest and most revered woman in the village. The man opposite her was Rinvoc, Lukrin's father. As the younger man stepped between these two respected members of his community, they each turned sharply on their heels and turned their backs to him. Lukrin swallowed sharply, but he did not cry. He knew what this was going to be. He had come prepared, or at least as prepared as he could have.

With each step he took, two more of his fellow villagers turned away from him. The snow and the freezing rain continued to fall, and the only coverings Lukrin had been allowed were his farmer's garb. The trousers were worn and riddled with holes, the shirt was thin and had long-since lost its sleeves, and the hide vest he wore did little to stave off the cold. Still, he had to keep walking forward. It was his duty, and that was all that was left to him.

Two by two and step by step, his former friends and colleagues turned their backs to their forsaken brother. No one spoke, no one offered a word to Lukrin, not one of encouragement, sympathy or even anger. He was simply locked in a cell of silence, one that extended as endlessly as the gray sky above them. And all he could do was keep walking.

As he neared the end of the lines, Lukrin locked eyes with Mznabi, and the tall, dark-skinned man seemed closer to tears than Lukrin. With each step, the young man grew closer, and his worry mounted. Mznabi had been in town long enough to understand most of their customs, but he didn't always know the depth of meaning the villagers attached to them. Lukrin bit his bottom lip. There was some much he didn't understand, though his ignorance was nowhere near as deep as the rest of the village. Only Lukrin knew. Only he could scry out the truth. Only he fully understood what had to happen this day. As he stepped in front of Mznabi, Lukrin mouthed a single word. His friend recognized it, wept, and turned his back.

A few short months earlier, and summer was at its peak, its grip holding tight around the village. The fields surrounding them were growing well, the rains had leveled off, and the heat was becoming oppressive in the long hours of the day. Lukrin, his father Rinvoc, and about a dozen others were idly working the fields, but it was a lazy time for them. The sun was straight overhead, and to them, it made little sense to exert themselves. There was always plenty of work to do in the mornings and the evenings. Often, the villagers did not work at all with the sun blazing so hot and so high, but today, Lukrin had insisted. He knew.

Even Rinvoc was grumbling by the time it happened. They had been working since morning, lethargically, but still baking in the sun for hours. But no matter how the others grumbled, Lukrin insisted that they stay out working. The other begrudgingly obliged, but only because the young man was well thought-of and respected, and he rarely made such requests. The others had no idea, but Lukrin was waiting for something. Sometimes, when he laid silently in his bed and thought about the gentle stream that ran just beyond the village, Lukrin could see things, glimpses of the future. If he concentrated, those glimpses became stronger, and Lukrin could piece together entire series of events. It always drained him quite a bit, and he never slept well afterward, but sometimes, it was worth the effort.

The sun was half a hand past its zenith when the vague, distant shape came into view. Lukrin, of course, was the first to see it, point it out to his friends, and begin moving towards it. As the villagers and the shape got closer to one another, the shape started taking a more recognizable form as it staggered in broken steps toward them. At first, Rinvoc and the others thought it was some drunken peddler who had lost the road, but Lukrin didn't. He knew.

The man collapsed just as the villagers reached him. He was a tall man, but thin, and his skin was darker than any the villagers had ever seen. Lukrin quickly gave the man the rest of the farmer's water, which the stranger struggled to drink despite being nearly unconscious. Working together, the villagers lifted the newcomer and carried him into the village. Elder Ghora met them as they entered the town.

"What is all this?" She asked, her voice stern but concerned.

"We found him wandering toward the village, Elder," Rinvoc answered. "He must have walked from a great distance. He seems nearly dead."

Elder Ghora considered the man. Then she closed her eyes, raised her face toward the sky and smiled broadly. "You have all done a good thing! This is the work of the gods!"

Rinvoc and the other villagers smiled. Lukrin didn't. He already knew. He did, however, speak. "Elder, with my father's permission, I would like to offer our home to help heal this man."

The others looked over at Rinvoc, who was beaming with pride at his son's generosity of spirit. "Of course, we would be honored to help this stranger."

Elder Ghora nodded with satisfaction. "Let it be so, then." She smiled warmly at the father and son before moving off back towards her home. The other farmers patted Lukrin on the back and commended him, and then helped him and Rinvoc carry the dark stranger to their house, near the edge of town. As they laid the man down on the spare bed, he spoke a single word, but none of them knew what it meant. Except for Lukrin, of course. He knew.

"You're welcome," the young farmer said with a smile.

It was nearly a week before they were able to get their new houseguest back on his feet. He did not know their language, but Lukrin, for reasons unknown to anyone, seemed to be able to pick up the stranger's with little trouble. His name was Mznabi, and he had been a villager himself in the lands far off to the west, beyond the Fardrop Mountains. His own village had been destroyed by a savage army of kobolds descending from Fardrop seeking prisoners and forced labor. One night, as they had neared the kobold's stronghold, the prisoners staged an escape, but only Mznabi survived. He wandered, dazed and alone, for days before he found his way here.

As Mznabi's strength was returning to him, Lukrin worked with him every day, when the farmer was not working the fields. He taught the stranger their language, their customs, and everything that made them a unique people. In return, Mznabi told his new friend of his home, an ancient and massive kingdom stretching all the way from the Fardrop Mountains, across the Singing Steppes and to the Vast, the ocean that makes the far borders to his home. He often spoke of how his King would raise an army and sweep into Fardrop for the insult of their attack. Lukrin would always smile sadly at these comments. He knew.

After about a month, it had become clear to the village that Mznabi was quite an amazing man. When Lukrin and Rinvoc presented him to the village at the Temple three weeks after his arrival, he was already fluent in their language. After a single night of experiencing the Creeds, Mznabi had the chant memorized. But more impressive even than his ability to learn of their language and their faith was his willingness to use them. He spoke cheerfully with the townsfolk as he passed them, and eagerly joined them in their celebration of their beliefs. When asked why, he would tell people that this was his home now, and he wanted to belong. He said he wanted more than anything to return the kindness they had shown him.

Once his strength had fully returned, Mznabi joined his new friends in the field. At first he was clumsy with the tools, as he had never farmed before in his life, but as with the language and the faith, he learned exceptionally quickly. Within two weeks, he was working the fields as though he had been all his life. The rest of the town marveled at their newest friend, and by the time the harvest began, they had all pitched in materials and time to build him a modest home quite near Rinvoc and Lukrin's house. Mznabi stood proudly the day the village performed the Welcoming, accepting him completely into their town.

The harvest was nearly completed when it happened. Mznabi was a smart man and a fast learner, but not all lessons sink in the first time they are heard, nor are all lessons taught with the same zeal. Sometimes, it is the most important things that get the most overlooked. Maybe Mznabi was told and simply forgot. Maybe he was never told at all. Or maybe Mznabi managed to fit into the culture of the town too quickly, and everyone forgot he had been an outsider and might not know certain taboos. Regardless of why it happened, though, it happened.

The days were beginning to turn cold, but the harvest was not quiet finished, and Mznabi slaughtered an animal. The animal belonged to the village, and anyone had the right to eat it, but not during harvest. It was sacred tradition that no living thing would be slaughtered for food during the season of the harvest, an eternal mandate of the gods from generations lost in distant memory. Mznabi did not know. He had meant no harm. He had simply gone for too long without meat, and thought nothing of the action, but the transgression was a serious one. And the faith made no allowance for ignorance. The punishment was clear.

Lukrin was the first one there, of course. He knew. Mznabi greeted his friend warmly, and offered to share with him the choicest of the meat he had just claimed. Lukrin's somber expression stopped his friend's jovial mood dead in his tracks. Without a word Lukrin took the knife from Mznabi's hand and gently pushed him out of the way. He knelt down by the animal and dipped his hands in its blood. Then he looked over his shoulder at his confused friend.

"Quickly, go home. If anyone asks, you were never here."

Mznabi's brow furrowed at the other man's words. "But, why?"

Lukrin smiled the saddest smile Mznabi had ever seen. "You will find out soon, my friend. But please, hurry. They'll be here soon."

It was obvious that the darker man wanted to say more, but he had come to trust Lukrin, who always seemed to be right about these things, and so he turned and ran. He was safely inside his house when he heard the angry screams of the townsfolk outside. He ran to his door to see Lukrin being herded like a criminal through the streets. The young farmer made certain not to glance in Mznabi's direction as they passed. Still, the once-stranger followed the mob to the house of Elder Ghora and listened with a broken heart as she opened her door.

"What is all this, my friends?" she asked, looking around in confusion.

"Elder," exclaimed the closed of the villagers, "we have caught Lukrin slaughtering a beast at harvest!"

Her aged mouth hung open in shock. "This cannot be!"

"It's true!" came the shouts of several from the crowd.

The older woman shook her head in disbelief. Lukrin had always been such a good man, so dedicated to the faith and to the community, and this was too horrific an act to have ever thought he could commit it. Finally, the Elder found words again. "Very well, Lukrin stands accused, and must have his trial. We will begin in the morning."

"With humblest respect, Elder," Lukrin began against the din of the crowd, "I will not waste our people's time. I am guilty. I slaughtered that creature in harvest."

The crowd was shocked by his brazen admission, and so was the Elder. She stammered a bit as she spoke. "You, you do know the punishment, do you not?"

Lukrin turned around to look at the angry faces of his friends. His sad eyes settled for a moment on Mznabi's, and as they did, he spoke. "Yes, Elder. It is mine to bear."

As Mznabi watched his greatest friend step close to him, he saw him mouth one single word, the only word he had even feigned to speak since that night. The word Lukrin mimed was "turn," and that was exactly what Mznabi did, though it broke his heart to do so. This was the man who had not only saved his life, but had given him a new one, as well. This was the person who had taught him about his new home, his new faith, and had shown him that the capacity of compassion still existed in humankind. And now, after everything, that man was asking Mznabi to turn away from him forever, all for a single mistake that Mznabi himself had made.

Mznabi's former culture, before Lukrin had given him the gift of a new one, had prized justice and strength over the frailty of emotion. He had been raised to believe that emotions served their purpose, but were to serve on the fringes of the mind, never overcoming the center. He had lived most of his life believing in the power of the intellect justifying and protecting the luxury of emotion. But now, watching Lukrin sacrifice everything for him, who had been a stranger just months earlier, was too much for him to handle. The tears came freely as he turned his back on his friend.

Soon after, Lukrin had passed through the entire line, and as their customs dictated, every one of his fellow townsfolk had turned their backs to him. He was an outcast, now. A pariah. He was not exiled from the village, but he may as well have been. He was still allowed to share in the food and warmth of the town, but always his portion of the share would be last. None in the village would ever speak with him again, except perhaps to give orders. His life in the village, for all intents and purposes, was over.

The next several months passed by slowly for the village and those within it. Winter was a dull time there, with no fields to till and little to do. Lukrin settled into his new role as the village pariah. He still slept in his father's house, but only on a small patch of straw on the floor of the coldest room. Whenever children misbehaved and needed to be punished, Lukrin took their beatings for them. During meals, he always ate last, and always less than the others. No apologies were ever made for this treatment, no moments of kindness from his former friends, no indication that things would ever be different, ever be better.

As the months wore on, Lukrin began growing weak, his frame beginning to wither away, his muscles softening from the lack of use or nourishment. Somehow, though, the farmer's disposition never faltered. He never spoke a word, nor gave any sign that his treatment was anything less than proper. Mznabi spent most of his time carefully studying the Creeds in the Temple, searching vainly for any allowance the faith offered for forgiveness. He learned much from his studies, but nothing that would help his fallen friend.

When Spring finally came around again, the village returned to their work in the fields, with Lukrin silently, even contentedly, taking up the most difficult of the menial tasks involved. Mznabi mourned for Lukrin's loss, but said nothing. He knew that Lukrin had taken his burden willingly, and somehow he knew that if he told the truth, it would only make things worse. There were days when he wanted nothing more than to scream, to rage at the village for their behavior, or cry out his own guilt in the Temple, but one glance at Lukrin's face, and his paradoxical expression that somehow merged sadness and happiness, always stopped him. Lukrin never said a word, but Mznabi somehow knew that things were as Lukrin wanted them.

Two months into Spring, calamity rode in from the west. At first, they all thought it was rolling thunder, perhaps a massive spring storm moving in, but the skies were pristine. Then they saw the dust rising up from the horizon, and fear began to grip them. The townspeople gathered in a panic at the edge of the village, and in a few short minutes they recognized the unmistakable shape of horsemen galloping toward them. The riders numbered easily in the hundreds, and by the time they reached the outskirts of town, the villagers could see the numberless lines of infantry behind them. This was an army fully mobilized for war.

Elder Ghora stepped to the front of her people as a single envoy broke away from the horsemen, stopping a dozen paces in front of the bewildered town. The rest of the riders stayed well back, but their demeanor showed they were prepared, even eager, for bloodshed. The Elder closed her eyes and whispered a silent prayer, then took one step forward before Mznabi stopped her.

"With respect, Elder," he began hurriedly. "I think perhaps under the circumstances, I should speak with them instead of you."

Elder Ghora looked the newest of her townsfolk up and down, and then looked back at the envoy and the army behind him. There was no question that he and they came from the same land. Ghora considered for a moment, and then nodded, laying her hand softly on his arm. "Yes, my friend, I think perhaps that might be best." She paused for a moment, and then, in a softer voice, said, "Thank you."

Mznabi only nodded before he moved past her and approached the lone horsemen, his hands open and held out before him in a sign of peace. He and the envoy were close enough that their conversation could be heard, but none of the villagers could understand what was said, because none of them knew his language. Except for Lukrin, of course. He knew. But as always, Lukrin was in the back of the crowd, and could not hear them speak anyway.

The conversation between Mznabi and his former countryman was animated, and much longer than the villagers had expected. With every passing moment, the tension grew. The soldiers behind the envoy were aching for action, and the villagers knew they did not stand a chance against even a fraction of this massive army, but still the envoy and Mznabi spoke on, first one and then the other. Finally, with an expression the villagers did not quite recognize, the envoy turned his horse away and galloped back to the front of his lines. He spoke briefly with a man wearing an ornate costume as Mznabi waited precisely where he had been standing. After several more tense moments, the envoy returned to Mznabi, and together they approached the villagers.

In a sharp, heavy voice, the envoy spoke to the townspeople, amazingly in their own language. "Hear me well, for my words carry greater import than any you have ever heard. Last summer, our people suffered attacks by the kobolds of Fardrop, and our King, Kurzdin the Feared, demands his righteous vengeance! The kobolds have fallen to our might, but we have learned of deeper treachery, for their attacks were crafted and funded by the Five Kings of Luura, by your rulers!"

The envoy paused, but the villagers said nothing. They owed their allegiance to the Five Kings, but the townsfolk themselves cared nothing for politics. The envoy simply continued.

"By right of vengeance, your lands will fall. We were sent by King Kurzdin the Feared to destroy you." He indicated to Mznabi, standing to his left. "This man was a loyal and faithful subject of our Kingdom. He has told me of your kindness and your goodness, and by his testimony and his testimony alone, you are spared. Remember always that your lives and your lands are safe from the ravages of war only because he has returned your kindness."

Without another word, the envoy turned his horse and rejoined his army, which was already in the process of splitting to move on, passing around the town. The villagers did not say a word for almost an hour, until most of the invading western army had passed their small community. When they did speak again, it was in a steady mixture of prayer to their gods and thanks to Mznabi. Lukrin simply leaned against a tree not far away, silent and smiling. He knew.

Eventually, the army moved off toward their conquests, and Elder Ghora ordered a celebration for their blessings. Mznabi was, of course, the guest of honor, but after a few hours, he slipped away. Lukrin was still standing by the tree near the edge of town, and Mznabi approached quietly. He did not even check to make sure no one was around. He did not care. He walked up to the opposite side of the tree, and they stared out onto the field as twilight began to descend. Mznabi glanced over at his friend and noticed his smile had become much less sad. The darker man shook his head.

"You knew."

Lukrin did not move as he spoke. "I knew."

"How?"

The pariah shook his head. "A gift of the gods, I suppose. Sometimes, at night, I can see things. Things about the future. Things that will come to pass."

"And you saw this army coming?"

Lukrin nodded. "Even before you arrived."

"Why did you not tell me?"

"Would you have believed me?"

Mznabi thought for a moment, and then hung his head. "No. In my lifetime, the King has never done such a thing. Today is the first time I have ever heard him labeled 'The Feared'."

"It had to be this way." Lukrin said plainly. But Mznabi was unconvinced.

"So you knew that only I could spare the village?"

Again, Lukrin nodded. "I knew."

"And you knew that if I had been made the pariah for the slaughter..."

He trailed off, so Lukrin finished for him. "You would not have stayed. And even if you had, you would not have saved them."

Mznabi simply nodded. Lukrin was right. If he had been treated as the village's native son had, he surely would have left for a new town, or perhaps returned to the west. But still, something bothered him. "Did you know I would slaughter that beast?"

Lukrin nodded a third time. "I knew."

For the first time since the incident, Mznabi actually felt angry. "Then why, my friend? Why did you not simply stop me? Then neither of us would have been a pariah, and I still would have spoken for the village. Why did you allow this to happen to yourself?"

Lukrin lowered his head. He had often wondered over the past few months if Mznabi would ever ask him that. "The future is made up of countless possibilities..."

"Do not change the subject," challenged the darker man.

"Believe me, my friend, I am not. I have known much of what will happen, but nothing is set in stone until it occurs. I played over countless possibilities in my mind. The transgression of the faith was inevitable."

Mznabi shook his head angrily now. "No. It was not inevitable. A few simple words, a brief warning, it is all I would have needed. Do you think your words mean so little to me?"

"Of course not," Lukrin admitted, "but there is more to it. After the animal was slaughtered and I became pariah, what did you do? You studied the Creeds, you absorbed our ways completely and fully, did you not?"

"Yes, in the hope of finding forgiveness for you!"

"And how much of what you learned did you not know before? How many other transgressions would you have committed had you not studied as you did?"

"I would..." Mznabi began, but then caught himself Lukrin was right. He had learned much that he had used. And just as suddenly he saw his friend's point. "I see. A transgression was inevitable, not the slaughter."

"Yes. The slaughter I could see. I knew I could be there before anyone else. Had I prevented it, I had no way of ensuring that the next one would be private, or what it might be. It may have been something small, but enough to convince you to leave. It might have been something large that made you the pariah I am, and then we would all be lost."

"So you took my place, because you knew it was the only way to save the village?"

For a fourth and final time, Lukrin nodded. "I knew."

Moments passed as neither man said anything. Finally, Mznabi turned back toward the village, the lights from the community hall flickering through its windows. "This town does not deserve you, my friend."

Lukrin chuckled just briefly. "If this town did not deserve me, none of us would be here anymore."

For several more minutes the two said nothing. Finally, as darkness finished taking its hold on the village, those two friends, the hero and the pariah, silently turned their backs to one another, and walked away.