Aidan shook the memories off and stepped forward to knock on the brightly painted green door. The windows glowed with light, so he knew that somebody was home. Sure enough a moment later the door swung open, spilling golden light out into the street. Aidan squinted at the brightness, but it was only a moment before his sensitive eyes adjusted enough to see the man who stood there. The aerian in the doorway looked older than he had last time Aidan had seen him, but he was still in good health. His shoulders were perhaps a bit more stooped, his skin more deeply lined, his wings a little bit moth-eaten, and his hair was definitely thinner, but there was no question that it was Thomas.

Thomas leaned forward, peering at Aidan with an expression of surprise and disbelief. His eyes were wide as he said softly, “Aidan? Aidan, is that really you?”

Aidan smiled. “Yes, it’s really me. I got your letter and came right away.”

“Letter?” Thomas looked puzzled. “What letter?”

Aidan pulled the folded square of white paper out of his pocket and handed it over, puzzled by his friend’s surprise. Was he old enough that he was forgetting things? Thomas took the letter and opened it, his eyes scanning over the words.

“Aidan lad, I’m very glad you came, but I didn’t write this. It isn’t even anything like my handwriting.”

Aidan blinked in surprise. The uneasy something surged up in his gut. What was going on? “If you didn’t write it, who did?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” said Thomas. Then he collected himself and added, “But let’s not discuss it standing on the street, come in, come in, I’ll make a cup of hot chocolate for you like you always used to like.” Aidan had been a little startled, when he first came to this world, to find that chocolate was commonly available. Somewhere in the far south it grew abundantly, and was traded to the north regularly. It was somewhat expensive, a luxury, but it was within the means of someone like Thomas, if only just. But that hardly mattered to him now.

Aidan stepped into the little house, finding it as cozy as ever. Things haven’t changed here, he thought, but I’ve changed. He felt suddenly awkward. How was he going to tell Thomas everything that had happened to him? “Thomas,” he called out as the old man headed for the kitchen, “I don’t drink hot chocolate anymore, so don’t bother making a cup for me.”

Thomas turned around. “You don’t? Why ever not?”

"I... It's kind of a long story."

Thomas gave Aidan a curious look, no doubt wondering what kind of tale could result in his young friend forsaking his favorite drink, but he didn’t ask to hear the story, he just came back into the front room and seated himself in his favorite chair. Aidan sprawled on the couch where he always used to sit, suddenly feeling tired.

“Well since we’re skipping the chocolate, let’s talk. I haven’t seen you in so long, I thought you were dead! It warms my heart to know you’re still alive, and doing very well from the looks of you.” Thomas grinned. His grin faded a bit as he surveyed Aidan from head to toe, but then he shrugged as if dismissing whatever thought had occurred to him. “You’re still too scrawny, but at least you’re not half-starved anymore. But you must tell me all about what’s happened to you. I think we’ve got a lot of catching up to do! Though things haven’t changed here any,” he added wryly.

Indeed they haven’t, thought Aidan. He was suddenly overwhelmed by all the memories. He’d had so many conversations here. They’d talked of everything, the older man imparting his hard-won wisdom to the younger, who often ignored it, but never forgot it. From that very first day when Thomas had lured him in with the promise of a good dinner he’d begun learning a different kind of lesson than the ones he learned on the street.

The boy perches on the edge of his chair as if he will take flight at any moment. The closed door that stands between him and the street is making him nervous, but the smells of cooking wafting from the kitchen are making his mouth water, so he stays. It’s been several years since he could count on regular meals.

“The stew needs to simmer a bit longer before it’ll be fit to eat lad, so while we wait, let’s have a little chat. I have to admit you’ve got my curiosity going. I’m very careful about my purse, but you came pretty close to getting it. Why are you so starved if you’re that good of a thief?”

The boy is reluctant to talk about his thieving, but the man doesn’t seem to be angry that the boy tried to take his money, so he ventures a cautious agreement. “I am a good thief, one of the best.”

“Then why aren’t you eating boy? Are you addicted to something, is that it?”

“No!” the boy’s answer is vehement. He remembers days that seem long ago, an almost forgotten time when he had parents and went to schools on another world. He learned then the folly of taking drugs. “I’m no druggie, but…” he hesitates to share the real reason for his hunger. Showing weakness isn’t safe on the streets, and yet he finds himself trusting against all experience. “I’m too small. You can’t live alone out there. You’d get killed while you slept. You need to have a good place, and other people so you can take turns watching. But I’m always the smallest one. So the gang I stay with, the big ones end up with most of what I take, no matter what I do. That’s why I started taking small stuff, like your purse, instead of going up the hill after the good stuff. I can spend a few coppers right off and get something to eat. But if I don’t steal enough good stuff they’ll throw me out. I’m not a good enough fighter to do anything about it, but I’m learning. And I am the best thief in Aerievale,” he adds, somewhat proudly.

“I don’t doubt that, lad. But where will that get you? When you’re my age, are you going to have anything? Or will you have been caught and executed by then? Now I’m not trying to lecture you lad, you can just ignore me if you like, but you might want to at least think about that a little bit.”

The boy’s expression darkens. He doesn’t like the advice, maybe because it hits too close to home. He can’t help but think of the jailers who already know his name. How much longer before he gets caught by somebody who isn’t as nice as this man?

The old man asks another question. “You don’t talk like a street urchin, lad. And your accent isn’t from here. Have you had some education? Do you read and write?”

The boy grins. “I can more than read and write. I’ve probably read more books than you’ve ever seen. You’re right I’m not from here. I'm an outworlder. On the world I came from I got a very good education before I ended up here. I know using correct grammar makes me stand out a bit, but I just can’t bring myself to butcher the language like the street kids do.”

"An outworlder..." The old aerian's initial reaction is skepticism. Everyone in Tara knows about the Tower and the Portal, their own queen came through it long ago and it is a part of the history and legend of the land. But legends and small thieving boys do not seem to go together.

The boy bristles. "I am!"

The aerian makes a placating gesture. "I don't doubt you lad. I just have never met one before. You hear about them in the legends, but they're not exactly thick on the ground."

The boy sighs. "I'm not part of any legend. I thought maybe I might have been, when I first came here. But I don't belong in the Queen's court. I thought I'd belong here, with other aerians. I guess I do, but only with the criminals."

The old man smiles wryly. “When the bards tell the legendary tales of heroes, they always leave out the real story. You only hear the momentous struggle, the triumphant victory. You never get all the difficult, boring, real life parts that make the big ending possible. Who knows, maybe your story will someday be one of those great stories. But they’ll skip over this part saying, ‘The hero had a humble beginning as a thief,’ and get right on to the more exciting bits. And nobody will ever say how you got beat up by some other thief who never amounted to anything, or how you got caught once by an old man.” The old man smiles, and the boy smiles back.