We all meander here.

[igiko]

Sometime later, he learns that memories are fickle where worlds congregate. In other words, the Rutile Flores he encounters on the streets and the ON world, whose gentle green eyes peer into his own without a shred of recognition, is probably not his match from the manor. Roland understands this, yet his heart clenches when their paths cross in front of a café, where Rutile waves at him.

"Would you like to join us for brunch?" asks Rutile. Across the small outdoor table, Figaro smiles amiably.

"If it'll please you to break fast together, I see no reason to refuse," says Roland, smiling back against the weight in the pit of his stomach.

Despite this, brunch is a delightful affair. Figaro is wise and well-spoken, while Rutile finds joy in discussing the small things. Their company leaves nothing to be desired. Roland ought to be grateful for the invitation, and he is. Time spent with Rutile is never a waste—even when his own existence is little more than an intrusive presence these days.

Figaro and Rutile are discussing Mitile when the latter turns to Roland and says, "Mitile is my adorable little brother." Roland nods.

"You must care for him deeply." Rutile beams, nonethewiser to the certainty of Roland's answer.

"Do you have any siblings yourself, Roland?"

"I do, yes," says Roland after a brief pause that earns him a knowing look from Figaro. He pretends not to see it in favor of painting Cordelia in the cherubic light she deserves. His brotherly pride crowds out the awkwardness that's been companion to him since he sat down, and he momentarily forgets his own pains as joy overtakes him.

All of that comes rushing back once they've had their last bites. Figaro gets up first. Roland rises to follow suit, and he stops himself midway before his hand can take Rutile's to help him up. But he isn't quick enough to pull back.

Rutile looks up at him appreciatively. "Ah, thank you." Retracting his hand, Roland forces a smile.

The sight of Rutile's strolling down the street at Figaro's side is not an unusual one. Roland sees them off, then takes off in the opposite direction with an unfocused gaze. Encounters like this one often trigger a murky memory from another life that doesn't belong to him—now, of a time when he dined out with his father who resembles Ser Maxwell and Rutile happened to walk past with his father the Dr. Figaro—and, frankly, he isn't certain of what to make of anything.

There are days when he wonders. When all familiar faces and names regard him as a stranger, is it not reasonable to think himself the outlier? When so many recollections bombard him at once like a barrage of arrows, how can he be sure which are the truth and which are falsehoods? His heart prods at his mind, tentatively reminding him of the answers, yet Roland slows to a stop with his shoulders taut as he looks down at his hand.

Surely, he thinks, those days were real. His fingers curl in toward his palm, and the absence of a tender hand is all too palpable. Surely . . .

As the weeks go by, he dreams less of old wishful fancies and more of the various shapes they've taken in a home away from the castle. In all of them, Rutile is a stranger whose handwriting is the only thing that strikes him as familiar. And, though his mind bears witness to everything in a haze, Roland's heart mourns inexorably for lost wishes at the end of each day.