A year and a half passed in a monotonous succession of dusty roads, inns, and changing landscapes. During this time, a noticeable change had come over Anastas, the beginning of which was laid on that very day after the encounter with the old woman.
Anastas became even more silent. He rode ahead for long periods, staring straight in front of him with an unblinking gaze, as if struggling to solve the same unsolvable problem in his mind. Added to this constant pensiveness was a nervousness previously uncharacteristic of him: he became abrupt, often frowned over trifles, and could not fall asleep for long stretches during their night halts. Everything seemed to have lost its meaning for him—the letters home, which Anastas had previously sent dutifully with the mail coaches, became increasingly shorter, and then stopped altogether.
Thomas bore the hardships of a wandering life with surprising meekness, not complaining a single word about the fatigue or bad weather. However, a quiet struggle, hidden from prying eyes, was also taking place in his soul. Remembering that evening by the fire, the sudden embrace, and the long-awaited confession, the youth lived in expectation for a long time. It seemed to him that the invisible barrier between them had finally begun to crumble, and now their relationship should become closer. Thomas was not foolish and perfectly realized how harshly high society and the law judged such an attachment between men. But internally he had long since come to terms with it, deciding for himself that Anastas had become more important to him than reputation, peace of mind, and everything else. All the harder was it for him to see how Anastas, instead of the expected closeness, only withdrew deeper into himself, building a new, even more insurmountable wall between them.
Eist brought some variety to their burdensome everyday life. The mercenary had left them a few days after the incident with the fortune-teller, citing his own urgent matters. Nevertheless, they had not parted for good. From time to time, as agreed, their paths crossed on major thoroughfares or in noisy city taverns.
For Thomas, Eist's appearances were always a genuine joy. The mercenary's company, with his easygoing nature and simple conversations, dispelled the gloomy atmosphere that constantly gathered around Anastas. The youth perked up, a smile reappeared on his face, and the long hours of travel ceased to seem so oppressive.
Anastas, on the other hand, reacted to these meetings completely differently. He met Eist either with pointed indifference or with noticeable displeasure. The man watched their lively conversations for long stretches, his lips tightly compressed, but did not interfere, preferring to stay on the sidelines and withdrawing even more intensely into his anxious and joyless thoughts.
Another nameless town greeted them with unwelcoming, drizzling rain. They stopped at the first tavern they came across on the outskirts, renting a small room. The atmosphere between them had been heavy since early morning.
Thomas was quiet, trying not to disturb his friend's already fragile peace with an unnecessary word or movement.
Anastas, meanwhile, was completely restless. He stood by the window, his hands clasped behind his back, staring fixedly at the blurred outlines of the wet street. The internal tension that had gripped him in recent days had reached its limit. His face had grown gaunt, deep dark shadows lay under his eyes—the result of the long, agonizing insomnia that had become his constant companion.
He was completely lost. Their journey was losing its meaning because Anastas no longer knew where they should go, who to look for, or exactly how to do it. The road that had previously led him forward had turned into a dead end. This feeling of his own powerlessness made him feel even more wretched.
His thoughts, like a pendulum, swung endlessly from one extreme to another, giving him not a minute's rest. If the old fortune-teller's words were true, if Athit was not Thomas, then where did this overwhelming feeling come from? Anastas couldn't simply brush it off. He felt a kinship with him too clearly and deeply. Every time he looked into those amber eyes, Anastas saw echoes of his own past in them. His soul unmistakably recognized this person, responding to his presence with such force that it was impossible to write off as mere coincidence.
And yet, being a man strict with himself, he could not deny the other thing either. That very original feeling that bound King Siriporn and Athit was not fully present in his current heart. The attachment to Thomas was immense, painful; he was ready to give his life for him without hesitation, but the very nature of this feeling was... different.
This insoluble contradiction was driving Anastas out of his mind. He tried to fit the facts to logic, tried to understand how one could simultaneously know a person, feel a connection with him across centuries, yet not find in him that very soul for the sake of which this path had begun.
A cold draft slipped through the room, making the flame of the single candle on the table tremble anxiously. Anastas closed his eyes, inflamed from lack of sleep, leaning his forehead against the cold glass. His world was crumbling, and for the first time in his life, he felt that he was slowly but surely beginning to go mad from his own inability to figure out what was happening.