Daryl walked into Rod's quarters to find his lanky, hunched figure pouring a cup of rum on his desk. He was dressed in his usual, thin button-up. Its thin material and simple design reminded Daryl of what one might have worn to bed. The room was just big enough for two people to share opposite sides of the desk. Behind the desk was a cupboard filled with rolled up, yellowish sheets of paper—records of the men to join Rod's guild over the years. The symbol of the Swordsmen's Guild was burned into the back wall of the room, two torches on each side of it. Although the giant snake symbol might have been the first thing to draw a visitor's attention, the most curious thing about the room to Daryl was the polar bear rug off to the left. Daryl did not know a lot about the wildlife of Autumnfront, but he knew that the mild climate could not have possibly been suitable for any polar bear. Not only was there the mysterious question of how far Rod had to have travelled just to slay a polar bear, but there was also a distinctively large, crusty spot on the fur next to its right ear. Every time Daryl entered that room, he could not help but stare at it.

"Want some rum, Daryl?" the leader asked.

Daryl took his gaze off the spot on the rug and back at Rod. "I prefer water," he sighed, knowing his leader was well aware he was not a drinker.

Rod chuckled under his breath. "Well, I haven't got any of that."

"I did not expect you to, sir."

"Ah, ya know me too well." The old man nodded toward the seat on the opposite side of his desk. "Have a seat then, Daryl."

Daryl sat in the chair across from his leader. It creaked under his weight, and while Daryl was not one to complain, sitting on the hard, aged material made it doubly uncomfortable.

The man finished pouring his cup and set the pitcher on the table. He took a seat and chugged down his rum. Some of the liquid leaked from his mouth into his grey goatee. He placed the cup back on the table and exhaled with satisfaction. Then, he planted his elbow on the desk and pushed his fist against his cheek, leaning forward. "So, Daryl, any idea why I've called you in here?"

Daryl rotated his shoulder blades against the back of the chair, finding no more comfort in doing so. He tilted his head and guessed, "To test my patience?"

He laughed a little under his breath, which sounded more annoyed than amused. "You don't even realize what today is, do you?"

Daryl thought for a moment, crossing his arms and shifting around in his creaky seat. After drawing a blank, he asked, "Should I?"

"You very well should," Rod asserted with a wagging finger and a small smirk, "because today is a very special day."

"And why is that, sir?" Daryl cocked an eyebrow, unsure of where the conversation was headed.

He rested his hand back against his cheek. "A very special day, indeed," he assured, "really special..."

"Sir...?" The swordsman sighed and leaned his head back a bit, certain of what would happen next.

Rod's eyelids began to fall, the old man slowly drifting off. As Daryl expected, it did not take too long for the man to start snoring.

Daryl groaned, his eyes shifting upward for a moment. With some time to himself, he redirected his focus on that mysterious stain on the polar bear. What could it be? Dried up...something. Drool, perhaps? Rod would not sleep there...would he?

With a quick gasp, Rod woke himself up and his eyes began to dart around. "Oh, sorry about that, Daryl."

Daryl looked back at him. "One should only say sorry when he intends to correct the mistake."

"Hmph," Rod grunted, rubbing his eyes, "maybe ya won't be so harsh once the years get to you, too."

The swordsman had the urge to argue that Rod had been falling asleep well before he reached his sixties, but he decided to hold his tongue to prevent any risk of dragging the discussion out any further.

"Speaking of which," Rod continued, "that brings me to my point." A feeble smile formed at the corners of his mouth, as if he wanted this to be good news for Daryl, but knew that something would he had to say would instead put him in a worse mood. With a short breath, he declared, "Today marks your thirtieth year as a member of the Swordsmen's Guild!"

There was a short pause. Daryl took a moment to process the information, and then remembered how scarce calendars were for most commonfolk to have. He was sure that Rod did not actually have a calendar and was making that up. With that in mind, he rubbed his forehead and responded, "You cannot possibly know that."

Rod's lazy eyes rotated and he shrugged his shoulders. "Well, maybe it isn't the exact day, but I have been counting every seasonal change since I started this guild." A proud smirk began at the corner of his mouth once he began to explain. "Additionally, I've been keeping track of each seasonal change that has occurred for each and every swordsman I have allowed into the guild. And today, I noticed the leaves on the trees have been falling and changing colors. Ya know what that means?"

"Yes, it signifies a new year, sir." His tone was formal, but the swordsman felt somewhat irritated being asked such an elementary question.

"Right you are!" the old man confirmed the answer with the enthusiasm of a schoolteacher. Once he noticed the exasperation in Daryl's eyes, he cleared his throat and toned himself down. "Anyway, today marks the thirtieth time the leaves have changed since you became an official swordsman."

Daryl glanced past his leader at all the records he had been keeping through the years. While the material of the cupboard had aged with wood peeling off at the corners, the surface at the top was polished smooth. In addition to that, the records at the bottom of the cupboard were sealed with a wax symbol of the guild, and the ones from the top to the middle were layered neatly in stacks—not a corner jutting out of place. Although Rod often appeared—and even behaved—absent-minded, his enthusiasm for his guild was undeniable, so there was no doubt in Daryl's mind that he really meant it when he told him that he had been keeping track.

The swordsman looked down at himself, examining the calloused, nutmeg-colored palms before him—the souls of the slain gazed back. Daryl took a breath through his nostrils, repeating, "I see...thirty years..."

Rod leaned toward his swordsman, curiosity in his raised brow. "Well, Daryl? How do you feel?"

"I feel..." Daryl narrowed his eyes with an exhale. He turned his palms down and out of his sight, silencing the cries that rang in his head. The swordsman returned his stoic gaze to his leader's expectant eyes and answered, "Nothing. My time here does not intrigue me."

Rod cocked an eyebrow, appearing skeptical with his answer. Nevertheless, he rested his head against his hand once more, returning to his perpetual stupor. "Kinda had a feeling you'd say that."

After a moment of silence, Daryl's eyes darted back and forth in confusion. "So, is that all you wanted, sir?" he finally asked, hoping Rod would not waste any more of his time. "To congratulate me?"

"Not at all," Rod answered. The slack expression on his face made it unclear whether or not he had forgotten why he called for Daryl in the first place.

Daryl groaned with thinning tolerance. "Then what is it?"

Rod lowered his chin and set his hand back on his desk, more focus shaping his countenance. "So, I don't want you to take this the wrong way, Daryl," he started, leaning back a bit in his chair, "but seeing as this is your thirtieth year here, your progress as a swordsman has...stagnated."

Daryl jerked his head back. "What?" he blurted.

Rod raised a steady hand in his defense. "Again, I don't mean to offend you, but it's been almost nine years since you've claimed the title 'Dauntless.' You're a highly skilled swordsman, one I'm proud to call one of the best in my guild, but every man has his limits."

A harsh glare deepened over Daryl's face. "Say it then."

Rod planted his hand back against the table, his eyebrows twitching upward in a warning manner—as if reminding his underling that he is the one in charge. Then, in a firm tone, he replied, "You're getting old, Daryl."

Daryl took a deep breath, trying to quell his growing anger towards what he believed his leader was getting at. His hands balled into fists at his sides as he looked downward. "Are you telling me to quit, sir? To give up my life's work?"

The old man was quiet, his only response being a long exhale through his nostrils. That stern expression in his eyes was unwavering.

I knew it...what will I do? The sword is all I have known for—

"What?" Rod chuckled, the serious look on his face breaking. "No, that's not it!"

Daryl's head shot upward with puzzlement. Still trying to recover from his pondering, he asked, "Sir, what do you mean?"

"There are swordsmen older than you, y'know!" Rod responded with continued giggling. "And look at me! I'm still working!"

As his leader continued to heave his chest with quiet laughter, the swordsman scowled and clenched his teeth. "You wish to toy with me after all?" he barked.

Rod waved his hands in the air in reassurance. "No, no, no," he denied, ending his laughing with a bout of coughing. He reached for his pitcher and poured himself some more rum.

Daryl tilted his head. "Then what is it? Sir?" In his frustration, he had to force himself to address his master as "sir."

Rod ignored Daryl's aggressive tone that time and downed another cup of his favorite drink. After a short exhale, he turned his attention back to his swordsman with another solemn look. He glanced at his pitcher and started with, "Ya might wish you were a drinker after this one..."

After that, he felt less frustrated and more apprehensive. What could be worse than having me quit? Daryl began to think about Rod's values, and why he was making a point about him getting older. Once he took into account that almost every other older swordsman in the guild had at least one other person by their side at all times, Daryl came to a troubling epiphany. Wait, is he going to...?

Rod leaned forward a bit, looking straight in Daryl's eyes. With the serious look in his eye, Daryl knew he was right about what he realized, but did not want to believe it. That was when Rod confirmed it in his own words. "Daryl, I want you to take on an apprentice."

"No." Daryl looked down, almost ashamed of himself for the blunt response to his superior. The word came out of Daryl's mouth before he could think about it.

Rod was silent for a moment, a more sympathetic expression shaping his face. Though the sentiment was there, his voice remained stern. "This isn't a request. It's an order."

Daryl let out a shaky sigh and looked down, shaking his head in constant refusal. With his gaze fixated on himself, it was not the palms of his hands that caught his attention that time, but the scar on his chest. He could feel it all over again—the burning contractions that branded him that night, a feeling unlike anything of the world he knew. "How could I...?" he murmured in a short breath.

"Every great swordsman must train an apprentice," Rod explained. "You are no exception to that rule." The old man twitched a corner of his lip as he watched the swordsman continue to shake his head. He furrowed his brow and resumed, "I can assure you, it's not as difficult as you're making it out to be."

"You can say that?" Daryl challenged. His eyes were still on his scar, but they were large with fury. "After everything that happened?"

"Daryl, I..." Rod sighed, shrugging with his hands at a sudden loss for words. "I...don't actually know the details of what happened with you all. And..." The old man kept pausing to choose his words carefully. "I'm not trying to force you to move on."

"No, of course not," Daryl snapped, raising his head back up and shooting daggers at his superior, "you are simply forcing me to obey some arbitrary rule for the sake of your guild! With no consideration for how it may impact your precious swordsman or—" Daryl stopped himself, blinking away the rage in his eyes and relaxing his hand against his chest. He looked down on his scar once more and finished, "...or whoever he may choose."

Rod responded with a silent, soft expression. He opened his mouth to speak, only to close it once again, struggling to find any words. With nothing else to say or do, the old man rose a hand toward his pitcher, but then lowered it back to his side with an exhale. After a moment of thinking, Rod turned his pinkish gaze back to Daryl with a more resolute countenance. "Daryl, whatever happened before, isn't gonna happen again."

The swordsman ran his fingers up and down the scar in a futile attempt to soothe the returning pain he felt—a pain that went deeper than the flesh. He shook his head, eyes still on his chest, and asked, "How can you be certain?"

Rod tapped a finger to his forehead. "Because now, you're wise enough to avoid it."

Daryl furrowed his brow, his head moving back and forth as if he had lost control over it. "No, I...I need...I need more time, sir..."

"You've had plenty of time, Daryl." The lamenting swordsman looked back up at Rod in a silent plea, to which Rod answered with, "Thirty days. That's all the time I can give ya. If you haven't introduced me to anyone by then, your work here is finished."

Daryl stared at his leader for a moment, hoping there was some way to change his mind. The old man did not falter, though, and Daryl returned his attention towards himself. He lowered his hand back to his side, understanding that nothing would quell the throbbing he felt in that moment.

"I told you that I'm not forcing you to move on," Rod started in an understanding tone, "but I also want ya to know that I'm not doing this solely to uphold a rule, like you said."

The swordsman met his eyes once more, a sadder look forming on Rod's face. Daryl had never seen his leader so sentimental before that moment.

"I'm doing this for you, too, Daryl," Rod explained, sliding his hand toward the swordsman's side of the desk. "You've been goin' at it alone for too long. I know ya probably think you don't deserve to heal after...everything. So, if ya won't give yourself another chance, then let me do it for you." He patted the desk once with a feeble smile and finished with, "Not as your leader, but as your friend."

Daryl narrowed his eyes at the old man, seeing no sign of insincerity in his facial expression nor his voice. He looked down on himself once more as his hands balled into fists. I cannot let it happen again... I cannot let it happen again...

Rod drew his hand back and cleared his throat. He hardened his expression a bit, his face reverting to its usual state of drowsiness. "Now, then. I'm gonna need some kinda response from ya."

I cannot let it happen again... I cannot let it happen again...

Rod planted an elbow on the desk and pressed his hand against his cheek. "Do you understand what I'm asking of you...Daryl...?" The old man's voice trailed off near the end of his question.

Daryl's breathing remained heavy, and his thoughts continued to run rampant. His heart pounded on the inside, only adding to the otherworldly heat he felt in his body. He started to shake his head again, but he knew he could not disobey. Swordsmanship was a skill he spent his whole life honing. There was no way he could give it all up over this, but his past began to rear its ugly head. Daryl kept thinking for another moment, and then he raised his head without realizing Rod's new disposition. "Sir, I do not—"

He was cut short by the sound of Rod's snoring. The man was sleeping with his mouth open so widely Daryl could see his bottom, darkened gums. Like that, the frantic nature of Daryl's countenance dissipated with an annoyed sigh. His signature scowl came back over his face, but he felt no compulsion to wake the old man. The conversation was becoming too painful to have, and he already understood what was expected of him. With that in mind, Daryl got up from his uncomfortable chair. Before he left, the panic returned and froze him in place for some time. What will I do...? After a minute, the swordsman forced himself to move and ignore the growing apprehension inside.

As soon as he walked out of the room, his eyes darted to the sound of Phillip bolting from his seat at a table to rush up and greet him. "Dauntless!" the man called, trotting up to him with relieved happiness. "I see the meeting's over, now about our discussion..."

"There is nothing to discuss, Phillip," Daryl answered.

Phillip's expression sank to a frown. His cheeks grew red and he stamped his foot like a toddler. "What? Why not?" he demanded.

"Because I need some time..." Daryl brushed past Phillip, leaving the tubby man to storm off back to his seat, uttering obscenities under his breath.

Daryl headed to the door from which he entered, where Grace was sweeping the floor nearby. She noticed Daryl coming towards her and she stopped, pushing a lock of her hair behind her ear. "Leaving so soon?" she asked. Her chipper expression dropped upon noticing the swordsman's disposition.

Daryl took note of her sympathetic look and deflected it with, "Yes, now you get to lock the door behind me. Tiring work, I am certain."

Ignoring yet another wisecrack, she asked, "Are you okay? You two were talking for a while..."

"Do not trouble yourself with it," Daryl commanded.

"Hey..." Grace stepped in front of him before and placed a firm hand on the wooden lock to the door. Daryl stopped in his tracks and stared down at the woman with a subdued intensity. Her eyes spoke with deep concern for the swordsman. "What were you talking about?"

Daryl lowered his head towards her with a seething glare. "What did I just tell you?" he asked in a hushed voice.

The ends of Grace's eyebrows shot up in response—a combination of fear and worry. Still, she remained in his way, stubborn for an answer.

Seeing that she was not going to move, he turned his head to the side and closed his eyes. He stood upright once again and explained, "You will find out soon."

Grace knit her eyebrows with puzzlement. "What do you mean?"

Daryl looked off again and lost himself in thought. It seems I can stall my decision no longer... He faced the woman with a new resolve in his eyes. "Tell Rod that I am carrying out his orders. He will fill you in on the details if you must stick your nose in my business."

Grace's eyes got big and she released her grip on the door lock. "Wait, Rod gave you your next job?"

"It is...a new sort of job." Of which I only have thirty days to fulfill.

"Oh..." The woman seemed to be frozen for a moment, simply staring into the swordsman's narrow eyes. Once Daryl tilted his head toward the door with impatience, her gaze faltered and she looked away with a blush. She stepped aside and grasped her broom with both hands, hanging her head low in an effort to hide the flush of her cheeks. "Um, just be careful out there, tough guy," she warned sheepishly, resuming her sweep.

Daryl watched her for a moment. As relieved as he was that she would likely never reveal her feelings, he wished that those feelings were never there in the first place. He took another step towards his exit and placed a hand on the board. After raising the lock, he responded, "Just be sure you replace the lock behind me." He shot her a stale look and added, "And do not give me orders."

She glanced back at him with a frail smile. The sympathy was still apparent in her furrowed brow, but she kept quiet and continued her cleaning.

With that, Daryl swung the door open and stepped back out into the cool air. He turned around to shut the door and found himself leaning on it once the reality of his situation sank in. His arm was pinned against the rough bark as he pressed his forehead against his inner elbow. The pulsating fire in his chest began to burn, and he could feel the panic rising. I cannot let it happen again... I cannot let it happen again...

Daryl closed his eyes for a brief second and there was an image in hishead: the boy kneeling down, reading that book. He reopened his eyes, forcingit out of his head. His hand balled into a tight fist, digging his nails intohis palm to drive out the pain of his past and bring him back to the present. Thatwas when a new thought burst into his head: I will not let it happen again!

***