"On the run yourself?" His lips quirk in amusement. Perhaps they have something in common.
Lenny shrugs. "Not the way you mean it. No. As I said I'm a loner. Too many people in my life and I get claustrophobic. I like space around me that's my own. Hence my living out here in the middle of nowhere. I own all of this, several acres actually, and I'm not poor. I don't have to work so I don't."
"Inheritance or good investments?"
"A small inheritance that I managed to increase by putting it to work for me instead of spending it all on frivolities like a fancy residence or lots of toys I don't really need. I'm a simple man with simple wants—a place that's mine alone, my books, perhaps a friend or two to spend time with on occasion."
"And now an unexpected house guest, though not by choice."
"Ah, definitely by choice. I could have left you there for someone else to find. Or taken you to the nearest hospital, despite the fact that I thought that you're carrying such a strange weapon might have brought you questions you'd rather not have answered. Of course at the time I didn't know you couldn't have anyway."
"Which brings up another question. You tossed my clothes, you said. Did you keep the sword?"
Lenny nods. Gets up to go to his bedroom. Returns shortly with it and a long leather coat. "I suspect if you hadn't been wearing this, you'd have been much worse off than you were." Lays it on the sofa. Hands him the sword. "Does this ring any bells?"
"No, not really." He stares at it. Runs his hands over it pensively.
"You're handling it as if it's an old and trusted friend, which I think it is from the age and condition. It's well used and well taken care of."
"But why? Why do I have it? What was I, am I, that I carried this, instead of say a gun or a knife, if I needed protection?"
"That we'll have to find out. I can tell you the blade is silver so it's not cheap, not by a long shot." Lenny's eyes are hooded as he gauges his guest's reaction.
"Silver? You're certain? What am I? Some nut who thinks werewolves exist? Isn't that what silver's for—to kill them?" He pauses thoughtfully, "Though that's silver bullets, usually."
"So you do remember your folklore." Lenny chuckles. "Silver bullets, full moon. I can see you now—stalking them down."
"Right. As if. Well, I hope not, anyways, I hope I'm not that crazy. I'd bet, once I get my memory back, I'll find out I was part of some Ren Faire Group, or hell maybe an actor. Not that that explains the silver blade unless I'm rich and was showing off." He stands. Twirls the sword. Lunges and slashes experimentally.
"You've got the moves. You know what you're doing. Does that strike any chords?"
"No." He sighs. Sits again. Lays the sword down between them.
"Look, don't give up hope. Something you say or do will bring everything back eventually."
"Perhaps. Unless whatever I don't want to remember is too bad or too painful. If that's the case, I suppose I'll just invent a new me and hope I don't run into someone who wants me in custody for some horrible crime. Or worse, dead."
Lenny looks at him. Pity in his eyes. Then grins. "Or a fiancé that you're running away from because you found out she was just after your fortune. It broke your heart and you've buried the pain by forgetting who you were."
"Oh, now that I like. Someone who wants me only for my money, not for this fabulous, if somewhat battered, body. People are like that. They're...they're only after... Shit. That sounds too familiar. Too damned familiar."
"Like something you'd have said?"
He nods slowly. "Yeah, I think so. But why?"