"Seren's one of three deities that we hapless folk love to glorify and celebrate," Olwen recites the next afternoon, when he and Echo are seated together in the main room of the North household. The fire breathes life into the winter-bitten space, chases away the frost that's settled into Echo's bones like cobwebs. Inigo's gone for the day, off hunting according to Olwen. Echo can't decide whether or not he prefers to have the man so far from him; at the very least, he's free from the damning fatherly stare Inigo so loves to turn on him.

    Echo, picking at the frayed edges of a worn, thin blanket, frowns minutely. "That's sacrilege."

"Says the man who can't even recall his gods exist."

Well, he supposes that's fair. It doesn't dilute the sting that pricks at Echo's heart, but he can't deny the truth of it.

"Anyway," Olwen goes on, lowering himself until his back is nearly flush with the floor, only the support of his elbows keeping him aloft, "Seren. We know him as the Patron of the Stars. His siblings, Eldora and Jericho, act as Patrons of the Sun and Moon, respectively. Seren's fickle, likes to do as he pleases and interfere at inopportune times. Eldora and Jericho tend to be rather hands-off, from what I understand; not like they matter much up here, since this is Seren's country."

Echo's barely begun mouthing the words when Olwen grins at him and hurries on to answer his unasked question:

"Yes, Seren's country. Galatea has been Seren's patron kingdom for centuries. I wouldn't ask why, because no one I've ever spoken to seems to know; I suspect it has something to do with the original Champions, though they're long since dead and gone, and sadly unavailable for questioning. Oh, but Cyrus, the kingdom directly to the East, is Eldora's country, and Neoma, in the West, is Jericho's."

Echo pulls the blanket tighter around his shoulders, breathing in and out with careful slowness. He can feel the beginnings of panic bubbling up in his heart, and he knows that if he allows himself to give in to it, he'll be rendered effectively useless for hours, if not the rest of the day. And he can't have that, not when Olwen is here to bear witness to his cowardice, to be saddled with handling the aftermath. So he closes his eyes and leans forward so that the warmth of the fire burns his cheeks.

The emptiness mocks him.

This is information he shouldn't have to be taught for a second time. This is knowledge of his homeland that should be imprinted upon his very soul, not lost to the goddamn ether for reasons unknown. No amount of manipulation should have been able to wrest these facts from his memory. And yet, here he is, a human made hollow, an overturned cup waiting to be filled once more.

"I don't suppose you have any inkling of where the Games will be held yet, hm?"

Echo's pinched shoulders grow taut, hitching up around his ears. Olwen's tossed in snippets regarding these Games every so often since Inigo vacated the premises hours before; he'd tried sneaking hints of them into the conversation prior to that, but Inigo had shut him down unquestionably each time, silencing his son with a hard stare as predatory as Olwen's. Echo's curious, of course he is, his life apparently hangs in the balance here - but he doesn't press for information, doesn't bear his vulnerability to Olwen any more than he has to. If Olwen wants to act gracious and freely give out information, then fine. But Echo won't begs for scrap like some malnourished street-bound pup.

"No, didn't think so," Olwen continues blithely, undeterred by Echo's stubborn silence. His eyes rove over the pockmarked ceiling, looking as though he's cataloging every nick, every darkened patch of water-stained wood. His fingers drum rhythmically against his stomach as he speaks. "The Champions set out to find one another, like they're drawn to each other, or so I've heard. Where they converge is the site of the Games."

Echo can feel that Olwen's eyes have dropped onto him again, but he makes no move to return the look. His skin crawls, though, prickling with gooseflesh and the promise of something unpleasant; what that is, he can't say, doesn't want to contemplate what lurks behind the honeyed hue of Olwen's gaze.

"Don't feel any urges?" Olwen questions, lifting himself free of the floor by his elbows again, leveraging himself onto his side so that he has a spare hand to tug lightly at the edge of Echo's blanket. The touch skims over his collarbone, deliberate and too deft for Echo to shy away from; Olwen's fingers flutter against Echo's mark, inviting another round of shivers to dance along his spine, and Echo hunches forward, rolling his shoulders to shake off Olwen's probing hand while he feigns wanting to get ever closer to the roaring flames of the hearth. Olwen clamps his bottom lip between his teeth, a hissing laugh of a breath escaping him before he shakes his head and scoots back. "I won't bite, you know... not unless you're asking for it."

The glare that Echo turns on him is unimpressed, indifferent, and it only gets another half-laugh in response.

For a few moments, they sit in silence. Echo side-eyes Olwen, watching as he closes his eyes and breathes, hand splayed across his stomach now that he's returned himself to his sprawling position on the floor, the other arm tucked neatly beneath his head. The floor is cold where it touches Echo's unclothed skin (his bare feet, his ankles), and he wonders for half a heartbeat why warmth has to be so gods-damned temporary. The cold creeps in, as inevitable as death itself; it crackles and breathes, browns fledgling grasses and stops beating hearts. The heat of spring and summer gives way to the biting frost of fall and winter every year, without fail. Always.

"Remember how I mentioned, ever so politely, that that frown of yours does nothing to bring out the full potential of your handsome face? Because I'm fairly certain the conversation wasn't that long ago, and that you were wide awake while it was occurring."

The press of a Olwen's thumb between his brows startles Echo into moving, but tangled as he is in his cocoon of blankets, he can't get more than a few inches away without toppling over into an undignified heap; Olwen, seeing his predicament, flashes another of his feral grins and sits up, grabbing onto Echo's elbow and jerking him upright at the last second.
    "Careful," Olwen all but purrs (gods help him), nails tentatively biting into the layer of blanket encasing Echo's arm; Echo swears he's torn straight through the fabric and into his flesh, but no -- closer inspection reveals that nothing of the sort has happened. Then the hand retracts and Echo flails for a moment until he catches a hand on the ground and holds himself steady. The glowing amusement reflected in Olwen's amber eyes does nothing for the bruise he's dealt to his ego.

When the silence (once so complacent) has stretched taut between them, and even Echo is sneaking glances at Olwen to test how far he's willing to take this, Olwen claps his hands together sharply. He jumps to his feet and roughly hauls Echo up after him, oblivious to all the colorful words Echo spits at him in retaliation, and steers the both of them towards the door, snagging what looks to be a pair of thick fur cloaks from a nearby chair along the way. He tosses one to Echo while he shrugs on the other.

    Echo catches the cloak instinctively, but rather than wrap it around himself and chase away the chill that's begun to crowd his skin now that he's been forced to abandon the woolen blanket, he holds it at arm's length, the fur sagging, lifeless, in his grip. He'd think he was holding onto the drooping body of a dead animal if he didn't know any better.

    "What do you expect me to do with this?"

    "Wear it," Olwen says plainly, just as he's fastening the clasp of his own cloak around his neck. He leaves the hood down, though one hand goes to reach for it, and Echo realizes he really does intend to go out -- and apparently he thinks that Echo will trod along in his footsteps.
    "Inigo said not to go anywhere."

    "What father dearest doesn't know won't ratchet up his blood pressure. Now come here and let me mother you, you poor, incompetent thing."

    Before Echo can retreat back to the safety and solace of the hearth, Olwen's caught him by the wrist and tugged him forward, into his space, so that he can steal the cloak back and wrestle Echo into it; he can't really be laboring under the delusion that Echo's incapable of doing it himself, can he? Whatever the case may be, Echo doesn't fight this time, choosing to conserve what little strength he's managed to regain for a later, more decisive battle. Venturing outside won't hurt him, probably; it could even serve to fill in a few of the holes he's had poked into his memory.

    Once they've both donned their cloaks, Olwen blithely leads the way into the frozen forest.
    Inigo had explained it last night during one of his many visits to Echo's room -- just making sure you're still breathing, is all -- that he and his son live several miles away from the local village of Celesta, nestled among the perpetually skeletal trees of the Starborn Forest. Out here, they're vulnerable to the whims of the elements (and Seren's fickle nature; Echo can connect a name to the whispered grievances he'd heard from Inigo now), but they prefer it that way, for whatever reason. Echo hadn't felt inclined to pry last night, and he certainly isn't going to beg Olwen for answers to his trifling questions. He's learning -- however begrudgingly -- to live with his ignorance, and one more out-of-reach answer isn't going to make much of a difference when stacked against the whole of his newfound naivety.

    Their trek is silent for the most part. Olwen only speaks occasionally to warn Echo away from stumbling into a rabbit warren hidden by the clogging snow, or to chirpily ask if he's still alive back there; other than that, he doesn't prod, or pressure Echo into making conversation. Echo would be convinced that Olwen's doing it to be considerate, as though he's sensed how unwilling Echo is to go through the motions and engage in meaningless chitchat -- except he's keenly aware already of how unlikely Olwen is to do anything that isn't to his benefit. If Echo had to guess, he'd say that, despite all evidence to the contrary, Olwen isn't all that fond of idle chatter, either. He hasn't spoken to Echo at all, now that he thinks about it, unless he had something... real to discuss, even if he has interspersed his brand of obnoxious flirting throughout the conversations.

    It's a sobering conclusion to come to, and distracting enough that it doesn't immediately register when the scenery shifts around him, the trees thinning out gradually until they vanish altogether, giving way to thatch-roofed buildings much like the one he'd awoken in.
    Olwen halts suddenly, which Echo notices only because he walks straight into the man's broad back. Grumbling a slew of curses beneath his breath, Echo steps back and peers around Olwen, casting a look around for anything that could have snatched his attention. He narrows his eyes, confused, as he can't find anything that seems remotely out of the ordinary. Men and women mill about between the buildings, children race through the streets; there are vendors hawking their wares, loud and brash like they're verbally fighting off the biting cold to draw in customers. Fires burn in charred pits lining the roads, dug into the ground deep enough that they run no risk of blazing out of control accidentally.

    Something wrong? Echo muses, tucking his hands underneath his arms. He likes the cold now about as much as he did when he found himself half-naked in the forest, which is to say he's more than somewhat tempted to fling himself into the flames of the nearest fire pit just to melt off the layer of frost he feels building on his skin.

    "...I didn't think I was really that stupid, to have forgotten about him..."

    Him? That sounds vaguely ominous, and not at all something that Echo wants to deal with while in Olwen's company. Flicking the man (who's yet to move, his gaze fixed on a point in the distance that offers Echo no explanations) a wary glance, Echo starts in the direction of a building he more or less thinks he's pegged as the local tavern; but he hardly gets ten feet from Olwen before a hand latches onto the hood of his cloak and jerks him back, nearly off his feet.

    "The hell do you think you're--"

    The words die on his tongue the moment he catches sight of the man who stopped him in his tracks.

    It isn't Olwen, which somehow doesn't shock him as much as it probably should. He's smaller than Olwen, lithe where the other man is muscular, dark where Olwen is fair. His raven-black hair is shorn short and swept away from his brow, giving Echo an unobstructed view of his equally inky eyes; it steals his breath for a moment, looking into the midnight irises and finding no light, to the point where Echo can't distinguish where the iris ends and the pupil begins. Even bereft of his memories, he's certain he's never seen eyes so utterly black, so... void.

    The midnight man's lips curve into a sly smile, as if he's pleased by Echo's reaction, and the hands he'd clasped around Echo's upper arms loosen and fall away, dropping down to his sides.
    Heart pounding, blood singing, Echo takes a step back, but goes no further; his leaden feet won't move beyond that, won't obey single one of his shrieking commands. Where the midnight man touched him, through layers of clothing, his skin burns.

He wants nothing to do with this man, and yet he can't move.

"Echo, I assume?"

    Olwen, who appears from nowhere at Echo's side, saves him the trouble of fumbling for his voice.

    "And you know that... how?" he replies, nonchalant as could be, though the hand he presses into the small of Echo's back is stiff with tension. "Hm, Ari? Care to play human for a while and be civil with me?"

    Ari's smile widens a fraction, his eyes crinkling at the corners with genuine amusement.

    "You know that isn't my style, Olwen. I only play human when there are regular ol' humans present."

    Echo shoots Olwen an incredulous stare, but Olwen keeps his eyes on Ari, his expression murky and unreadable.

    After a moment's pause, Ari chuckles and raises his hands in a placating gesture.

    "Yes, yes, I'll go along with your wishes for now, Olly." Turning to Echo, Ari folds himself into a bow (that feels altogether mocking to Echo), before adding, "In this country I go by the name Rosario Silver, but since you're one of Olwen's, Ari will do. And if you must know... I know your name because I know that Seren's claimed you."

    If not for Olwen's hand at his back, Echo might have fallen backwards into the snow, his legs having given out on him from the jolt of surprise that tears through his body.

    How could anyone -- let alone this midnight stranger -- know of Seren's claim on him? The mark, that gods-damned mark, isn't visible by any means, Echo had made sure of that while changing into Olwen's hand-me-downs this morning. So how--

    The change is sudden and swift.

    One moment Ari's gaze is that solemn, soul-chilling black -- and the next it is alive with starlight. In the span of a single second an entire universe appears to have bloomed in Ari's eyes, a million pinpricks of light overtaking the twin pools of onyx. And when Ari speaks, it's not with Ari's voice.

    "Echo... my champion."

    Echo's spine seizes as Olwen's nails dig painfully into the back of his neck, but he's grateful; it's that pain that grounds him, keeps him on his feet. His fight-or-flight response screams at him to run, that whatever is inhabiting Ari's body means him harm, so much harm; but he stays rooted to the spot, transfixed by the silver starlight staring back at him.

    The new voice shares Ari's rich timbre, the silky smooth undercurrent; but a thread of unbridled power thrums through each and every word, shaking Echo down to his bones.

    "Echo, Echo, you've no need to fear me," not-Ari continues, bringing up a hand to stroke down Echo's cheek; only, Olwen pulls him back, out of reach, and the hand doesn't follow. Not-Ari's laughter grates on Echo's nerves like the edge of a dulled knife. "I'm here to claim you, officially, and for no other reason, I assure you. The other champions have already begun their journey to the current site of the Games; I felt it only fair to send you on your way before it becomes too late to catch their scent. So to speak," he adds, his grin slick and feral -- worse than Olwen's in a thousand different ways.

"You're... Seren?" Echo chokes out, breathless. It's as though the village has disappeared -- the sights, sounds, even the very air... gone, leaving Echo with merely that starry-eyed gaze and the constant, crushing pressure of Olwen's hand at the nape of his neck.   

Seren tilts his head, the gesture signalling that the answer to his question is obvious.   

"I would berate you for your lack of respect, but... your circumstances are truly unique, as you well know by now. I'm aware you can't help yourself. But for future reference, I'd advise you to act accordingly. That heart of yours is important, yes? Vital to the human anatomy?" Seren closes his eyes, curls a hand over his chest; Echo chases the movement, his own heart stuttering. "Be shame... if I ripped it from your chest and squeezed just a tad too tight... don't you think?"

It's all Echo can do not to bolt now, uncooperative limbs be damned; he'd crawl on his hands and knees if it meant getting far, far away from this... creature. Seren must sense his unease, because he steps back, spreads his hands in a gesture that feels like it should be conveying some form of comfort; all Echo gets from it is another scrape of illusory claws down the length of his ill-gotten mark.   

"I'll take my leave, then," Seren says, practically beaming, still with his eyes closed. Perhaps he noticed Echo's distraction and took it into account. "Don't hound Rosario too much; he won't remember any of this when he returns. Echo" -- despite the fact that he knows Seren can't see him, Echo feels his stare like a dagger between his eyes -- "I'll be cheering for you. Don't disappoint me."   

And with that, Rosario crumples to the ground, and the static charge that had been buzzing through the air dissipates -- just like that, everything's returned to normal.   

"Well," Olwen says, after what could be an eternity of silence, his voice oddly small and rough, "that could have gone decidedly worse."