He wore gloves and loose robes and a cloak in the local fashion. Walking in the midday sun, there was no part of him exposed. He burned anyway. The locals he travelled with, when he travelled with anyone, would look over the reddened skin and marvel at him. A pale northerner, straying too far from home, they would say. Some were pitying; others laughed. He supposed he deserved as much. They weren’t wrong, really.
They gave him more cloaks, and a salve to rub into his skin, and joked about the foolishness of foreigners. Go home, some of them urged him. He had nothing to prove. What could he gain by doing this?
They quieted when he spoke of finding his mother. Whether it was pity or understanding or something else, he didn't know.