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Asher put his head back on Harry’s chest and was quiet again. “You know that feeling,” he said, eventually. “You know where you come from, where you belong, that identity you feel in your bones, in your core. That tattoo on your chest. No matter where you are, you know who you are, where you’re from.”
Harry gave him a squeeze and let him talk.
“I don’t have that. I am... without a nationality. I have no home, no country. I am... blank. I have no sense of identity.”
Harry wasn’t sure what he could say to that. “They can trace your DNA now. It will tell you where your blood is from. Your heritage.”
“Maybe, and I’ve thought of that. But it wouldn’t matter because I don’t feel it. It’d be like having someone else’s arm sewn onto my body and calling it mine.” He shook his head. “I spent my earliest years that I can remember in a Croatian orphanage. I arrived there when I was three or four, I think. And I was reminded every day that I did not belong. That I was stranac. A foreigner, someone who did not belong.” He let out a long breath. “Until I was five, I thought stranac was my name.”
Jesus. “Oh, Asher.”
He looked up at Harry, sighed and collected his thoughts. “When I was about six, I was loaded into a truck with other boys and taken to a military training school outside of Belgrade in Serbia. By the time I was twelve, I’d lived in Kosovo, Bulgaria, Albania, Turkey, Italy, France. No papers. I never had any papers, any records. If they’d killed me, no one would have ever known.” He smiled sadly. “But I was smart, and fast. I adapted and I learned. I was just a boy when I started running mule jobs, taking items or information to people. At the age of ten, I could shoot any target from four hundred metres, five hundred if the wind was right. I was fifteen when I shot my first human target. I was good at everything, so they kept me. Not many other boys made it...”
Harry cupped Asher’s face and thumbed his cheek. There was such sadness in those beautiful eyes that Harry was lost for words. What on earth could he say?
“I still don’t have any official certification. I think one of the matrons at the orphanage gave me the name Asher Garin when I first arrived. I’ve searched and Four has searched, but there is no record of me anywhere.” He shrugged. “There were other children at the orphanage, and looking back, I can see that maybe we were displaced or stolen from the war. Some parents came and found their child, but no one ever claimed me.”
Harry was stricken, heartbroken for that small boy all those years ago. He couldn’t imagine the horrors he’d have seen. “The war?”
“There was once, only once, the mention of Sarajevo,” Asher murmured. “At the orphanage, I overheard them talking. They said something about when the truck of children had arrived from Sarajevo. Trafficking is worse in war... women and children are sold. Maybe I was one of the lucky ones, I don’t know.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
“I’m so sorry,” Harry whispered.
Asher simply shrugged. “No one ever came for me. It’s very likely my parents were killed.” He inhaled deeply, his eyes focused on a memory for a long moment. “I went back to Sarajevo, years later, to see if I could feel any kind of connection.”
“And did you?”
He shook his head. “No. It actually felt strange. The opposite of a connection. It was uneasy, even. Like something was telling me I should leave.”
Harry placed a gentle kiss on Asher’s forehead. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”
Asher was quiet again, reflective, sad. And all Harry could do was hold him tight, hoping he would feel comfort and connection, even if just for that moment.
“Can I tell you something?” Asher whispered.
“Of course.”
He was quiet for a few moments, obviously trying to get his thoughts and words in order. “I don’t know if it’s a memory or a dream. But there’s a road. I can see it. I think it’s a memory. It feels like a memory, but I think I was very young. I’m with my parents, I think. I don’t know. I can’t see them but I feel at peace, without a care. I feel safe and loved. I don’t have much of a reference for either of those things so it’s difficult to explain.”
Harry rubbed his back.This poor man. “It sounds nice.”
“It’s a country road, I think. Maybe it’s a long driveway, I don’t know. There is a field on one side and trees on the other. I don’t know if we’re driving or walking. I can see it in my mind, and I have no clue where it is, but I think that was my home.”
Harry tightened his arms around Asher, holding him close, and kissed the side of his head. He wanted Asher to hold onto that memory, that image. “What colour is the sky?”
Asher froze for the briefest moment. “Um... It’s morning, I think. Or sunset. The sunlight is in the trees. Orange and yellow.”
“Are there flowers in the field?”
He was quiet again, maybe trying to recall. “No, I don’t think so. It’s green. A farmer’s field.”
Harry breathed in deep and held Asher, nestling him into his strong arms. “It sounds lovely, and I’m glad you have that.”
Asher swallowed hard, his voice barely a whisper. “Thank you, Harry.”
* * *
