Yet another scene change. We'll get back to Meagan in the next chapter, no worries. Until then, though... 

Remembrances

He felt hot, blinding light, and heard pealing laughter, like bells. Whispers and sighs, lamentable and pitiful, circled him. A deep void of nothingness was swallowing him whole, pouring into his mind and heart. He heard a moo, and sounds of chewing. There was a snort.
Tristan opened his eyes. “Oww,” he complained, and put a hand to his head. “My forehead...” He paused. Obambos can't feel pain...
He was lying on soft grass, in a pasture. Tristan stood and brushed the dirt off of his pants. He noticed the feather on his leather strap was gone. His shirt was soiled. That wasn't good; he had that dinner with the Normans later that day...
Wait. Am I... in a memory?
           A moo next to him brought his attention to the cow. Tristan laughed. “Bessie!” he greeted, the name coming unbidden to his lips.
“Moo,” Bessie replied.
Tristan smiled. It was all coming back. He, Tristan Hoefer, had been a young farm owner in the year 1505. There was a war going on, and times were tough, but his spirits were high, and he had been determined to survive and etch out an existence in his unforgiving world. He remembered his past, his friends the Normans, the names of each of his cows, farming tips and knowledge, even jargon, but nothing about his untimely demise. One minute he was laughing with some silver-haired girl, and the next...
He was an obambo.
But now... now he wasn't. Had he somehow gone back in time, or was it all in his head?
“You'd like to know, wouldn't you?”
Tristan whirled around, mouth agape. Ebbony hovered overhead, wings beating. They weren't the same feathered appendages as before, but black, veiny, membraned expenditures that reminded one of bats. She flashed a smile, devoid of warmth. “I have a deal for you,” she declared. “You can stay here, and I'll tell you how to avoid your early death. However, I want something in return.” She came closer. “What can you give me, Tristan Hoefer?”
“I don't know. My farm, my cows... you name it. Being broke is better than being dead.”
“But were you really? Dead, I mean,” Ebbony asked. “Oh, never mind. I don't want those. Material possessions are useless to me. I need something more. How about your dreams? Hopes? Trust? ...Dancing?”
“You can't have my dancing.”
“All right, fine. Keep your dancing. I wouldn't want your repertoire of Orange Tomatoes moves anyway.”
“Why? They're cool.”
“I hate them. Everyone knows that tomatoes are red, and only fools would say they're orange. So who names a band that? Not to mention their taste of rock-and-roll is outrageously bad, and they have no fashion sense whatsoever.” She ranted on for a while about what other areas they lacked good judgment in, then got a hold of herself and sighed. “You know what? I won't take anything from you.”
“Why not?”
           “You might say,” Ebbony said, “that your living might help a certain someone, and that certain someone is the person I really care about. No offense, but if it wasn't your involvement with her, I wouldn't even bother with you.”
The face of the laughing silver-haired girl flashed into Tristan's mind. He couldn't remember her name, though. Try as he might, he glimpsed only a phantasm that he couldn't completely grasp. Then another thought entered Tristan's mind.
“How do I know this is really where I belong?” he challenged.
“You have memories now, don't you?”
“What if you put them there?”
Ebbony smiled wryly. “What a little distruster you are. I suppose you'll have to take my word for it.”
           “But I don't trust you.”
“Obviously. Whether you trust me or not has little relevance, small fool. None, if I dare say so. The fact is, you have to choose on blind faith.”
Tristan, can we stay? He heard a voice from his memories speak. It's so safe here, and cozy. I've never felt this secure in five years, since the war started. Please?
“I'll stay,” he declared.
“Oh?” Ebbony raised an eyebrow.
“Vain hope's better than no hope,” Tristan answered.
“As I say so myself,” Ebbony agreed. “Not many have the same position on the matter.”
“I don't care.”
“In that case,” Ebbony bowed, “I bid you adieu.” There was a wind, a frightening gale that almost blew him over, and once it disappeared, she too was gone.
Tristan sighed and scratched his palm. Looking down, he saw a rolled-up piece of paper stuck in his shirt cuff. He pulled it out and read it, curious.

Just a word of advice: I suggest avoiding going to the warehouse 13 past ten o'clock. And avoid dabbling in magics that you don’t understand. That’s rather how you died last time.
oEbbony

Tristan crumpled the note and tossed it over his shoulder. Why would he go to an empty old warehouse anyway? For grins and chuckles? As for magic, he had no ability in it anyway. In any case, now that he knew the message, he didn't need the paper. Bessie started to chew on it, and Tristan glanced up at the blue, blue sky. It seemed far more vibrant and colorful than it had in 1913. He knew this was where he belonged. He just knew.

Tristan was walking Bessie home from the pasture when he saw her.
It was the silver-haired girl. She had collapsed near his barn. She looked to be about his age, and her long hair framed her delicate face. Her eyes were closed, and she breathed in slow, soft intervals. Tristan knew she was asleep, but her slumber was anything but peaceful. She thrashed, muttered unintelligible phrases and cried out, then fell still, shaking slightly.
At first, he ignored her completely. He led Bessie into the barn and into her stall, next to the horse's (a brilliant stallion named Black Knight). He tossed an apple into Black Knight's stall, sighed, and walked back outside.
The girl was still there, and she no longer thrashed about, only trembling. Tristan frowned. He certainly couldn't just leave her there. He sighed and picked her up, carrying her to his house a few yards away. He had trouble opening the door, but after a struggle, managed it. He walked through his kitchen and living room, both modestly furnished, and up the stairs, setting her down on the bed in the spare room.
After making sure she was in what he hoped was a comfortable position, Tristan ran downstairs and put some soup on the stove. He realized his dinner would have an extra guest and hoped the Normans wouldn't mind.
While the soup was cooking, Tristan sat in his armchair and read. He couldn't remember what happened in the story, even though he had a bookmark, so he started over from the beginning. It was a romance, which he hated, but he had nothing else to do, so he read it anyway. He got up only to turn the stove off once the soup was done, then returned to his book. He was nearing the midpoint when he heard the creak of the stairs. Placing the bookmark in the page, he turned.
The girl was halfway down. She smiled, her eyes a violet mist. “Thank you for taking me in,” she whispered, her voice warm and laced with a minor accent.
“Uh... no problem.” Tristan stood. “I'm Tristan Hoefer. This is my farm. You're welcome to stay here, um...”
“Mel.”
“Yes, Mel. You can stay here as long as you need.”
“I'm most grateful, but you can't.”
“Of course you can.”
“No, you can't allow such a thing. There are men chasing me, and I need to help Kitty. She's hurt.”
“Is she your friend?”
“Yes.”
“Well, where is she?” Tristan found himself saying, even though a little voice was ranting in his head.  No, Tristan, you can't get involved with foreign girls. For all you know, they're one of those... wanted people. What rational reason could a girl have for showing up by your barn?
“It's a warehouse a little ways back. Number 13. She's hurt, and lost her arm.” Mel frowned. “I shouldn't have fallen asleep.”
Tristan glanced at the grandfather clock in the living room, its ticking matching his pounding heart. It was only five. He could easily be in and out before ten, no problem. Hopefully.
“Show me,” he said, ignoring the voice in his head protesting against involvement with foreign girls.

“So, where are you from?” Tristan asked as they walked.
“Not important,” Mel replied. Warning bells went off in Tristan's mind, but he didn't say anything. “Here we are,” Mel pointed.
Tristan shivered. It was getting cold out, and dark. His breath formed little clouds in the air, and beside him, so did Mel's. Her eyes were bright in the moonlight, almost glowing. Unintentionally, he shivered again, then entered the warehouse.
Warehouse 13 had been used in the past to store boxes and boxes of who-knows-what and wasn't in use anymore. The stacks of crates formed a maze-like series of passageways, and Tristan was glad Mel was there to show him the way; he would have easily gotten lost. Nearing the back, Tristan caught sight of a dark lump wrapped in blankets. “Kitty?” Mel called out. “It's me, Mel. I've brought help.”
           Tristan added, “I'm Tristan. Can you walk? If not, I can carry you to my house.” He immediately felt stupid. 'If not?' Who talks like that?
            Kitty stood, clutching her left shoulder. With a pang of pity, Tristan saw the arm was gone. Kitty was pale, and red seeped between her fingers, but she grinned weakly. “I'm strong. I can make it.”
She fell over.
Tristan picked her up, careful not to jostle her too much. “Sure. Tell me if I'm hurting you,” he said.
As they walked back to his house, he tried very hard to make sure Kitty wasn't being pained by the movement, but he could tell she was enduring with a steadfast and proud, yet excruciating, silence. “How long ago did you get hurt?” he asked.
“A couple of weeks ago,” Mel answered for her. “Those men we were talking about... they showed up. I bandaged the wound, but it keeps opening a few days later. I don't know why.”
Once they reached the spare bedroom, Tristan lay Kitty down and took a look. “I'm no expert here,” he said, “but it looks infected. You should really see a doctor.”
Kitty paled. “Um, no.”
“I can't help you much. You seriously have to get professional medical attention.”
“We can't,” Mel said. “I told you- we're being hunted.”
“Is that really it,” Tristan retorted, “or are you afraid of shots?”
            “Can it,” Kitty mumbled. It was meant to be forceful, but it came out weak and whiney. “It has nothing to do with fear. Fear means nothing to me now.”
Realization came upon Tristan like inspiration for a dance. “You guys are westerners, aren't you? Victura?”
“Please don't tell,” Mel pleaded. “This whole war is an extermination campaign. If we go to a doctor's, we'd be giving ourselves up for the slaughter.”
“But if the infection gets too bad, Kitty could die,” Tristan said.
Kitty frowned. “Do you know any way to cleanse the area of the infection?”
“I don't know any. Again, I'm not an expert.”
A knock on the door downstairs reminded Tristan that he was supposed to be entertaining guests. He thrust a swathe of clean clothes into Mel's hands and pointed to a back door. “Go through there to get water from the well. Careful that no one sees you. Please wash the wound while I cancel on the Normans. Once they're gone, I'll come back up to give you some food, okay?”
“Got it.”
Tristan ran downstairs and flung open the door. Emily and her mother smiled, then gasped. “Tristan, what happened to you?!” Emily exclaimed.
Tristan looked down. His soiled shirt was now covered in splotches of red from carrying Kitty. He wished he'd thought ahead and changed. “I smashed some tomatoes,” he lied. It was a terrible excuse and he knew it wouldn't fly, but that was the best he could do in such a short time. “Um, listen, something came up, and I really can't do this today. Sorry.” He grinned sheepishly. “How about next week?”
            Mrs. Norman scowled. “Who do you think you're fooling, Tristan?” she demanded. “I am a doctor. I know what blood looks like. Why would you hide a patient? Did you find...” Her voice dropped significantly as she finished the sentence just above a whisper. “...one of them?” Tristan's look of guilt and fear was the only answer she needed. “I'll take a look.”
“Don't turn them in. They'll be killed.”
Mrs. Norman gave him a dirty look. “Tristan Hoefer, do you think I would treat a patient just to get them killed?”
He shrank under her gaze. “No, ma'am.”
“Then quit worrying. Em, run back to the house and get the medical kit.”
Emily nodded and dashed off.
Mrs. Norman stepped inside and led herself to the spare room. Mel and Kitty were conversing in low tones, their words foreign and laced with power as they spoke their native tongue. At the sound of the creaking door, Kitty sat bolt upright, wincing at the pain it brought. Mel stopped talking, her eyes wide. No doubt she thought Tristan had betrayed them.
Mrs. Norman smiled soothingly. “It's okay,” she reassured. “I won't turn you in. I'm Dr. Norman.”
“Kitty.”
“Mel.”
“Are those your real names?” Mrs. Norman asked kindly, palms up in a gesture of peace.
“Nope,” Kitty answered truthfully. Mel frowned. She did not seem pleased that her friend had confessed.
“Can you tell me what they are? I'll keep it secret.”
Mel and Kitty exchanged glances, then nodded. Mel pointed to herself. “Esilanna Aquila. This is my friend, Cattallus… Cantabile.”
Kitty smiled. “That's me.”
“Are you hurt, Cattallus?” Dr. Norman asked. Tristan rolled his eyes. As if that wasn't obvious.
“Yes.”
“May I see?”
“Yes.”
Dr. Norman drew near, and exhaled slowly when she saw the wound. “Oh, dear. This looks bad. It's got a terrible infection.”
“Can you do something about it?” Tristan asked.
“Maybe. We'll see when Em brings my supplies.” She said to Cattallus, “Are you hurt anywhere else?”
Cattallus pointed to her abdomen. “Just a scratch,” she answered. “It's not that bad.”
“I'd like to see anyway.”
The door opened, and Emily shuffled in, carrying a huge satchel. “Here you go,” she said.
“Ah, perfect!” Mrs. Norman sighed.
Esilanna said, “May I remain in the room while you treat Cattallus? I wish to help.”
“Of course, deary. You can stay. Tristan has to go.”
“What? Why?” He spluttered.
Cattallus gave him a look.
“Oh,” he realized. “S-sorry.” Tristan bowed slightly and left the room. Alone in the hallway, he sank onto the floor, sighing. “Now what?”
Cattallus started screaming. What, is she having surgery? He thought that perhaps Mrs. Norman would attempt to amputate some of the infected flesh. Tristan covered his ears against the high wail, wishing he had cotton to stuff in them. What's going on?
A wolf howled, and suddenly, there was silence. Tristan knocked on the door. “Are you okay?”
“She's fine,” Emily replied. “We gave her something to bite on. Go boil some water.”
“Sure thing,” he said, dashing to the kitchen. The soup was still there, in his only pot, so he dumped it down the drain and filled the pot with water. Once it was boiling, Tristan ran upstairs, spilling some on his toes. “Ow!” he cried. “Em! I got the water!”
The door opened, the water was claimed, and then it was promptly shut. Tristan leaned against the wall and bit his lip. Hours of tense pacing and restlessness followed. He wanted to be free of the worry. This is so ridiculous. You barely know her. Why are you so distraught?
Finally, when Em, Dr. Norman, and Esilanna left the room, he immediately plied them with questions. Dr. Norman held up a hand to silence him. “We treated it, and I did amputate some of it. Hopefully, she'll fight off the infection- she's strong, but only time can tell. She's sleeping now. She's exhausted, the poor thing.”
“Are you hungry?” Tristan asked. “I have some ham near the icebox, and I just bought some bread from the market.”
“Yes, please,” Esilanna accepted. “I'm famished.”
“You owe us a dinner,” Emily joked.
“That I do. I'll go and get you one,” he replied, suddenly more at ease. He even started dancing, but a look from Dr. Norman killed the inspiration he had coming. “Oh, come on!” he exclaimed, exasperated. “Does no one like the Orange Tomatoes?”
“Who?”
             Oops. This is 1501, not 1913, dolt. The Orange Tomatoes haven't been born yet. “Nothing. Sorry.” Suddenly, he was hit by a wave of homesickness, which surprised him, considering he was home. He missed 1913, yet at the same time, he had such a feeling of belonging...
Esilanna looked away, and Tristan noticed that she looked exactly like the silver-haired girl that he had seen in his memories, back in the pasture. She seemed to be very uncomfortable. “Is something wrong?” he asked.
“I-” She stopped and clutched her head, wincing.
“Esilanna!”
She smiled through clenched teeth. “It's okay. It's... nothing.”
“No, it isn't,” Dr. Norman said. “That is definitely anything but nothing.”
“I just have these attacks sometimes. Migraines. Really, it's nothing.”
Kitty stared at her friend, a strange look in her eyes. She turned when she noticed Tristan eyeing her. “You might want to check Esilanna over for wounds.”
Tristan nodded his head. “Do you want to lie down?”
“No.” She straightened, her pride kicking in. “I'm fine, really.”
Behind her, a cloud obscured the moon, full and gleaming. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled again- there must have been a pack out. A lone eagle feather drifted from the firmament and fell on the windowsill. Tristan opened the window and picked it up. It looked like the one that had disappeared from his leather strap. Esilanna Aquila… ‘Aquila,’ as in ‘eagle?’ He handed her the feather, and Esilanna smiled. “Thank you,” she said. “Eagles… are my friends.”
“Why?”
“Because we share the same name,” she replied, and smiled. “We are alike.” She turned. “Tristan, can we stay?”
“Huh?”
“It’s just that… It's so safe here, and cozy. I've never felt this secure in five years, since the war started. Please?”
“Of course,” Tristan replied. “Stay as long as you need.”
Esilanna put the feather in his hand, and curled his fingers around it. “Keep it,” she said.
“What? Why?”
Esilanna smiled. “In case anything happens… as a remembrance.”
“A remembrance…” He managed to get the feather attached to his strand. “How’s it look?”
Esilanna smiled. “It suits you.”
“Here.” Tristan put his hand into his pocket and pulled out a wooden disc. “Keep this. As a remembrance.”
Esilanna traced her hands over the pattern- that of a twelve-pointed star. “I will,” she said, and attached it to the chain around her neck. “Thank you, Tristan.”
“For what?”
She smiled. “Now we’ll both be reminded of each other.”
Tristan felt his cheeks grow warm. “Um, yeah.” He shivered as he remembered the five hundred years he had wandered as a ghost with the feather around his neck, with not a notion about his past. Would it really help, or would he lose his memories and be left with an empty hole and a keepsake that gave him no remembrances?

Poor Tristan. Well, at least we kind of know who Cattallus is now, she's Kitty :3.

Just a question, but was the Warehouse 13 an intentional reference? Because I like that show. And you pretty much described it in this chapter.

A user of this : Er, I was aware of the show and never saw it.

I named it after the 'haunted' Warehouse 13 in FMA because it was my sister's favorite episode, and she never reads my stories.

Kitty is Cattallus' nickname.

Dragonlord Stephi : Nice Backstory for Trosten . Most writers would have just had the character or a close friend of the character TELL the story but you made it so that the character RE LIVED the story . Wonderful and creative and oh so original Well done Stephi Well done indeed  

Mr. Zed : Why, thank you! Telling back story is one of the hardest things for a writer to do. I still have to figure out how to tell Esilanna, the Hating Fire, and Carmen's complete back story, because it is a doozy.

Dragonlord Stephi : Doozy ? You know only old folk use that word right ? Anyway good luck with the backstories and I bet they'll be good .. cuz ur the one who wrote em