Falowik woke with the rising sun. He did not remember his dreams, much less if he had had one. No, there had been a dream, of an Elf woman, fair and kind, no, and angel who was fire beneath flesh. Falowik stretched and discovered a blanket wrapped around him. No. It had not been a dream. Uien. She had been real, kneeling before him, offering this very blanket. No, she had offered more than the blanket: the fire inside to heal and make whole, but first to scrub raw. He had not been ready for that. He had no plan to be ready for such a thing any time soon.
There was soap. He could smell it. He had made a promise. He would see it through, even if he stood off from her today. He rose, bundled everything up, and went down to the stream. It was a cool breezy morning. It was a secluded spot Uien had told him of. He had to just about peel the clothes from his back, and decided that they needed a good washing, too. He pulled out the soap and went to work.
After the suds had washed downstream, he peered at his reflection and saw what he had not seen for years: a clean face, though marred by stubble, and golden hair, the color of yellow fire. So had he been born, and so had he been named: Falowik, gold fire. It didn't look all that bad. He turned from his reflection, blurred as it was by the current, found a round rock, and rubbed at his shirt and trousers with soap in one hand and rock in the other. The grime sloughed into the stream and flowed away.
He heard someone singing lightly nearby. He left off scrubbing sunk to his neck in the water, backing to the bank, hoping not to be seen.
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