The Accused

I changed in the years of my exile, and though no one in the streets recognized me beneath the beard and rough clothes, I had found my home with little effort. Heavy leather gloves with large stitching were the only reason I made it inside the gates. Everyone here knew I was a wastelander, but it was not until I pushed into the main square that I began to call out the names of my family and the priests. Not pleading, not searching, but as a demand.

Guards hemmed in, but a man recognized me and all motion in the square halted in two kinds of silence: confusion and speechlessness.

Again I demanded the names, and slowly the people began to stir as word spread of my return. In such a small town, it didn't take long before I stood before the same crowd as I had long ago.

This time, as the accuser.

I dared the priests to wash their hands before us. I mocked the guards wearing their heavy gauntlets, the deacons with their arms crossed beneath their robes. I even called out the secret servants who skirted the crowd.