The exile tended his garden, freeing the roots of the broad oaks so that they might breath easy again. The weeds withdrew to the edges of the vale. An owl passed overhead and perched on a tree limb which protruded over his camp. He removed his helmet and looked into the bird’s eyes, dropping to his knees and reciting a prayer under his breath. The wise one cocked its head toward the mouth of the vale. A bloodied girl in the rags of a savage wandered hastily toward him, as if running from that old hateful wave. Cato knew he was not the last one.  He raised his hand as if to calm a spirited charger and spoke in a melodic and deep voice, saying come and eat, let your wounds be tended. She spoke in a dialect which Cato could barely comprehend, for the tongue was harsh and primitive. Cato dressed her wounds as the owl looked on. He fed her the last of his rations. She shook when Cato moved to tend her bruises and cuts. She said that she was molested by the men of her tribe, and that this was the way of her people. She had in the past come to hide here under the thick underbrush of weeds. Cato fixed his bedroll against the tree’s trunk and motioned for her to rest. He promised to return and walked down to the base of the mountain, where there was a clear spring.

Cato stripped naked and washed the ash from his hair and the dark stains from under his eyes. He rubbed the grime from his steel. He looked to the south, the country of his ancient fathers and saw it was gone. He continued to scrub the spots where there was once ash, until blood was drawn. He dressed and returned to the girl. The owl took flight toward the north, deeper into the mountains. He squat near to the girl, watching the edges of the vale and looking upon her, pain shot through his heart.