Chapter Text
Prologue
It is always different.
Sometimes he remembers early, sometimes late, sometimes as a child, sometimes when he is old and worn and has far too many years upon him, but he never dies without remembering, without knowing what he has never had and yet has always lost.
Sometimes it sneaks up on him, a quiet, yearning ache for he knows not what until it rolls over him in an enveloping wave, and he wonders how he could ever have forgotten.
Sometimes he wakes up one morning and knows everything, sometimes it comes in drips of loss and confusion, sometimes he chokes upon a scream because the first thing he remembers is the end.
Sometimes he remembers all the times before, sometimes he remembers only the first, sometimes he remembers fruitless searches through continents and generations, sometimes all he can remember is Uncle, and two sets of bright eyes and solid faith, and, always, always, mud and blood and death.
It is always the same.
He discovers what he has lost, and then he searches.