I watched him from the peaceful shade of a tamarisk whose branches hugged the boundary wall of mossy stone. There I sat in seclusion waiting for the Master to speak. That's what they call him in reverential awe, but I'm a stranger to these lands so I keep quiet. I'm a man out of my time. A Chronicler of the Ages come back to see just how things played out. I won't interfere, nor try to change what will be. To alter time is to change fates, and nobody wishes to go back to an unrecognisable world. We all get that. But certain events in history just beg to be changed or witnessed.

He was taller than I thought he'd be, and looked younger than his years. But then I'd seen his mother, and she was still beautiful despite her age and mounting concerns. I'd gotten into the gardens by way of paying a bribe to a member of the family. I could have sneaked in but I knew the soldiers would be vetting the crowds. I didn't want to be linked to his campaign, I chose anonymity. And here he was far from his flock, talking to the skies and sounding so forlorn. It was turning cold and I could see the outline of his breath on the air, floating like plumes of smoke desperate to flee and disappear. He was such a plain man, so unimposing and unmemorable. It was only his presence of charisma and words that lingered in others. Not a King at all, an imposing figure others would relate to. But in his actions, his words and conviction he was indeed a Master, and they birthed a legend that was spreading.

"Friend, won't you come out from the shadows?" he said matter of factly. I wasn't sure how he could even tell from this distance that I was there. Perhaps it was the moonlight shining on my silver buttons. Or the sound of my pen as I chronicled my thoughts in the none existent light. The beating of my racing heart? The loudness of my thoughts? The straining of my senses to distinguish what he was saying? Any or all of it, but not that he might know from his omnipresent...