Scene 1

An old house with crumbling stonework, surrounded by greenery, and a slate roof still in good condition: this was the scene that lay before him. If someone had told him that the hero of his adopted country lived abroad, far from the city centre, he would never have believed it. And yet, there he stood in front of this house, his rucksack filled with blank sheets of paper and a variety of pens, ready to record every word of the story he was about to hear.

A young journalism student, he had chosen to devote his degree thesis to the Great Revolution. He felt incredibly lucky to have received a reply from the great hero of their history, who had agreed to the interview to enrich his work. His hands were already sweaty and his heart was pounding with excitement. It was the first time a trainee journalist like him had secured an interview of such magnitude. Standing in front of the door, he shifted from foot to foot, opening and closing his hands repeatedly, before summoning his courage and knocking.

He waited.

Nothing.

He knocked again, louder. This time, the door opened. He stood frozen to the spot, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape, struck by the splendid blonde hair of his hero and his dazzling smile. It was indeed him: Auren Ombrast. Even the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes did nothing to detract from his charm. He stood there open-mouthed for a few seconds, then put two fingers to his lips to whistle before bowing his head.

"H—hello! I’m Zyaid Fu-Fuylort! We spoke over the phone and agreed to meet for… for an interview! It’s an honour for me, Sir! Is it…"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down, lad. I’m half-deaf, and even for me you’re speaking too loudly,” joked his hero.

“Sorry! I-I’m so sorry! I…"

"Take it easy. Breathe. Come in, sit down on the chair, put your hands on your knees and take a deep breath."

The young man obeyed, entering without even paying attention to his surroundings. He sat down, closed his eyes and followed the older man’s instructions. When asked to breathe out, he did so. After a few dozen seconds of breathing in and out slowly, he felt his heart calm and his hands relax. He then opened his eyes again and finally took in the scenery before him. The interior of the house perfectly mirrored the exterior: an old-fashioned style, overgrown with greenery, wooden furniture worn by time. There was almost no sign of technology, apart from the car he’d spotted outside. Everything gave the impression that time had stood still here for over half a century, perhaps even before the Great Revolution.

He took a few sheets of paper and his favourite pen out of his rucksack, then looked up at his hero, sitting on the sofa opposite him. Auren didn’t take long to speak.

"You’re the journalist who asked me for an interview, aren’t you? You haven’t graduated yet, since this is for your second-year dissertation. You’re thinking big, aren’t you?" he said with a smile.

"Yes! I wanted to give it a shot, I didn’t think you’d agree… I’ve pre-… prepared a few questions… Ah, I haven’t got them out yet, wait…"

He bent down to rummage through his bag when he saw long, slender, graceful fingers resting in front of him, gesturing for him to stop. He looked up at Auren, surprised.

"You want to know the story as it really happened, don’t you?"

"Yes, sir! I know you’ve already given some interviews, but none of them capture your exact words, so I wanted…"

"I know. But you want the truth, yes or no?"
"Yes!"

Zyaid saw Auren swallow and fidget nervously with his hands.

"I know you want the truth. But it’s not the one you’re usually told. And I’m not even the real hero of this story… Do you still want it?"

Zyaid frowned, then nodded vigorously. His journalistic curiosity got the better of him. What did Auren Ombrast mean by that, he without whom everything he knew might never have existed? He watched him get up and head towards the garden. Yet Auren wasn’t the first to return to the room.

A woman entered before him. She walked with a slight limp, her back somewhat stooped. Long black hair streaked with white framed a face that bore the traces of a faded beauty, marked by the ravages of time. She looked very old, but Zyaid swallowed hard as he met her sombre, troubled gaze. He knew who she was: the Traitor, the Hypocrite, the Indecent. And despite appearances, she was no older than Auren.

"If you want the truth, she’s the one you need to talk to," Auren said in a grave tone, before turning to Serina and smiling gently at her, guiding her towards the sofa where he had been sitting moments earlier. "Would you like something to drink, darling?"

"Auren, I can quite manage on my own. Stop hovering over me so much! I’ve just hurt my foot a little!"

"And you plan to walk on it all day so it heals faster, is that it? Stop being so stubborn, Serina."

The young man stood frozen, watching what looked like a lovers’ quarrel between the country’s greatest hero and one of the darkest figures in its history. So the rumours of their union were true. Yet the idea seemed absurd to him. He cleared his throat to signal his presence, lowered his head and avoided the woman’s gaze.

"I’ll leave you to talk. But please, Zyaid… give Serina a chance to tell her side of the story. I’m off, darling. If you need me, you know where to find me."

He kissed the top of her head and patted the young man on the shoulder, then went into another room and closed the door behind him. Silence fell for a moment, before Serina clicked her tongue, clearly annoyed.

"You haven’t prepared any questions? I knew this whole thing was a bad idea…"

"I-I had pre-prepared some, b-but they w-were for M-Mr A-Auren…"

His jaw was trembling, his body was heating up, and he was pressing his hands against his knees. Being alone with her frightened him. She seemed to have realised this, as she had been staring at him for over two minutes and seven seconds.

"Calm down. Breathe. I’m not going to eat you. I’ve had lunch already. What did you want to know?"

"... H-How it all b-began…"

"I’m going to take it as meaning you want to know when my story got interesting, is that it?"

He didn’t quite understand what she meant, but he nodded.

"I’d say it was a few days before the national exam. I’d been revising for months, day and night. One evening, my two cousins and I were sitting in front of the television, still revising," she began, her gaze lost in the distance.