***
Azrael and Glint spent most of the week with Glint’s family while Vladimir caught up with his kinsman. The man was naturally impatient to get his instrument repaired, but Glint was sure he was also enjoying himself with another person from the same land. It had been many a year for him, after all, since he’d met with Glint’s neighbour. The warrior had a private talk with each of his parents separately, telling them that he was going to continue on his journey with Azrael and try to be successful in his own way. “I am still going to visit, mother,” he said into her arms as she tried to squeeze the living breath out of him, crying with lustre such as he’d never seen. Since he had been helping her with getting wood into the house, they were standing outside the log cabin’s door in the fresh spring air and its green grass, and Glint glimpsed a passerby or two grin, but he wasn’t too embarrassed. Marie’s feelings were more important than smirks, after all.
“Every year?” she sobbed into his chest, and he nodded in reply, causing Marie to laugh in that teary way that nobody but happy mothers could really manage. “No more of this one week nonsense either! If I don’t see you for a month each year or two I swear I’ll come get you!”
“Yes mother,” he replied dutifully, and for a second he truly believed she’d do it.
Glint’s father took the news better, and they merely had a chat about nothing in particular. Horst gave him some advice about life and they spoke of women. Glint had no real conquests in that regard, but Horst told him to not rush things and to ignore Marie’s impatience. A worthy partner was worth waiting for, he said. The two forged steel together in Horst’s workshop for the village folk’s working tools and accessories. The smithy was but a minute’s walk from where the man lived, and so Horst felt comfortable spending much of his time there. Glint’s arms remembered the work he had been taught as a young boy and he hammered upon the anvil with a satisfactory rhythm for the blacksmith, who mumbled something about Ability users and their brute strength while watching Glint’s powerful strikes in wonder.
“Dad,” Glint asked in a lull between two hammer strikes, leaving the unfinished metal on the anvil so it could cool slightly, “why did you forgive me this easily?” It was something that had truly puzzled him for almost a week now, yet he kept his eyes on the deformed glowing red lump of iron before him. The warrior dared not look up at his father’s flame lit face. “You were always against me training for abilities with the other children, against me leaving to become a mercenary, against...well, everything.” He truly could not understand Horst’s reasoning, because he’d always thought the man terrified of exactly what Glint had now become. The heat of the forge caused him to sweat, but it was not the only cause for the cold droplets beading his forehead.
In answer, the blacksmith walked over to his son and took off his gloves for him, then took off his own, putting both of their palms upwards. He compared their hands against each other, one gruff with hammer work and burnt in several places, the other callused from wielding a sword and nicked here and there. “My grandfather’s blood is murky with anger and insanity,” he stated matter of factly. Glint remembered his own moments of those very same feelings, the time that his eyes would become clouded with searing savageness. “Had I gotten what you have now, there is no doubt in my mind I would have walked the same path he had, eventually. That was why I was afraid. You’re his spitting handsome image, my boy, and it shames me that I didn’t trust you with the responsibility of strength, for fear you would become him in heart as well.” Glint looked up from his hands and he saw his father’s smile underneath soot and dirt. He kept the man’s gaze, so as not to give anything away. “I needn’t have worried,” Horst concluded, and the warrior wavered in his resolve to keep his peace.
“But-“ started Glint, and his father cut him off. “You have your mother’s kind soul in you, and you have good friends. In this world it’s kill or be killed sometimes, and you may choose to do things wrong to any standing outside your armour. But my son will be no monster. As long as you do what you truly yearn for in your heart, I am content.” With that, the blacksmith turned and walked out of the door, handing his hammer to one of his apprentices to put away. Glint was left pondering his decisions in the searing heat of the forge for a while before he turned his attention back to his hammer and anvil.
After that, things passed more easily for the warrior. He was able finally feel as if his burdens and insecurities were lifted off his shoulders, allowing him to be at peace with himself. Towards the end of the week, Vladimir’s instrument had gotten fully repaired, and the necromancer and bard joined them for dinner again before they would head for the tavern for an early night and a fresh start back to the region of Krava, across the borders. Glint heard his mother grumble about how it couldn’t hurt to break the thing again and have them stay a little longer, but decided to pretend he’d heard nothing. Keti was also there, in order to spend some more time with Glint before the youth left.
Vladimir of course played a few choice songs to liven the mood for the parents, who were not going to see Glint again for a long time. He strummed his gharja with an obvious joy, and true to his words the music was sweeter than it had ever been before. The window covers were drawn, and the only lighting in the room came from scattered candles. Joining them as well was Baldur the craftsman and his tough wife, who had played with Glint as a child and had come to bid him farewell. The man was large and stocky, and he shared Vladimir’s blue eyes, although his ruddy rounded face was clean-shaven and he kept most of the blonde hair on his head. Lillian, Baldur’s wife, chose this day to give Glint the earful of his life. She was delighted to know he’d learned to read, however, and the woman spent a while chatting with Azrael about intellectual pursuits.
All eight sat around the table to have a fine home cooked meal and then scattered around the room for individual conversations. The only sombre moment was when Azrael pledged to return Glint safely here in a year’s time. He had put his hand over his heart and sworn a solemn oath with his black eyes fully serious, which mollified Marie a bit. She thanked him and he continued his assurances in a theatrical manner, returning to being the usual old Azrael.
That was, until later in the evening Glint heard his mother say, “You don’t know how precious a child is, please be careful.” The youth’s head whipped around from where he had been speaking with Baldur about craftsmanship. His eyes cast about, hovering over where he’d last heard her voice.
The last he’d seen, Marie had been chatting with Azrael, but such a hurtful coincidence couldn’t possibly... Looking over, he saw that she was indeed speaking to Azrael across the room from him, and he noticed the necromancer’s crimson lips go very tight. Knowing what he did about Azrael, Glint had the good sense to walk over and pull the man by the elbow, saying for his oblivious mother’s sake, “I think we got some things mixed up while packing, Michael. How about we go set things straight and come straight back?” he pushed the necromancer out the door, smiling all the while, and when they got out of the house he handed the man his black tattered cloak, which he gingerly took with eyes cast down, and they walked side by side in the evening’s sunlight.
Glint thought about how true night would be more fitting for this conversation, then said to the man, “She didn’t mean it, you know. It’s just, you look too young to be a father and she was already missing me. You know how mothers can be, and you know how thankful to you she really is. I saw how happy you were to see us reunite and patch things up,” at that, Glint slowed down in his speech, and his voice went soft in response to how Azrael must be feeling. “So, I imagine you know more than anyone how much I mean to them, because you feel... felt, the same way. I’m sorry.” All the while, Glint was looking off to the side. He really didn’t want to offend his friend, not after all he’d done for him.
The necromancer sighed at long length, letting his frustration out. “I know. She’s a good person. I’m glad you got me out before I said something I shouldn’t have
on the day before her son left her. That would have ruined the evening for everyone.” Another moment of silence went by with them shuffling along the beaten path in the spring weather, then Glint added, “You know you could tell me, at least. Some things you can’t keep bottled forever.” He then hesitated before adding, “You don’t have to. I just think it might be better for you. Besides, the more I know, the better I can act around you.”
“You really want to know?” when Glint nodded, Azrael began his explanation in a hollow, matter of a fact voice. “I’ve never killed anyone. It was something I used to be proud of, an important aspect of my life. I was a protector of those who had none to protect them, and on some level I thought that I deserved a better life for it. So why is it that my wife and daughter had to be killed while I still stand here today?
“I wasn’t present enough, plain and simple. I was too weak to protect them. It really comes down to my own incompetence, but it still keeps me awake at night. I never got to see my wife’s body, to bid her goodbye. And my Judith? The way those bastards murdered her, there was nothing left to be buried anyway. That’s about the gist of it.” He stopped to pick a solitary white tulip off the side of the road, a tender expression on his face, leaving Glint to his shock. “This was Raimé’s favourite flower.”
Glint assumed Raimé was his wife’s name, and Judith his daughter’s. The warrior offered a silent prayer to Odin for both of them, although prayers were no help to the dead of this world. Azrael then pocketed it in his cloaks before continuing along the dirt road, saying, “She preferred red ones, though. They grew in a dangerous place, but I still want to go pick them for her every month.”
Glint took a moment to think of something appropriate to say, looking at the man’s passive looking face, which he now knew was hiding far more pain than should be shouldered by any single man. He had a feeling it was the first time that Azrael had told anybody his story, and he had a sudden image of the man walking alone from town to town, helping people everywhere with a smile on his face and a cross on his back, pausing only to run a comb with a ruby on it through his black wavy hair. A comb far too feminine to be his. Suddenly Glint’s anger flared at how much the necromancer was beating himself up, how he wore himself out for other’s sakes. “And this is why you help Normals? Because you want to make up for not being able to protect your family? Odin’s balls, man, there are other people to be blamed!”
“Yes, and I took care of them,” the words were said with enough venom to cut the warrior off. “They’re alive, for I still think that no one in this world deserves death, but I assure you they wish they weren’t right now. There’s no need to kill someone when you can do what I can.”
For the first time since they met, Glint realized exactly how terrifying Azrael could be. The man’s eyes, he was sure, were blazing with pitch black fire, and he was afraid to ask the necromancer what he had done to the people who had dared hurt him so. “Anyway,” said the man, changing the subject “There’s no need for pity, and I don’t spend much time feeling sorry for myself. What happened has happened, and my desire to help people is not purely out of self punishment. I help simply because I wish to. Anyhow,” he added, clapping Glint’s shoulders light-heartedly, “We have work to do and these things are personal tragedies. I think you should go to your family, and I’ll head on to bed. Good night, Glint.”
His tone brokered no argument, and so the warrior simply turned around and did what he was told. Deep inside he felt guilty for not being able to comfort his friend, but there was nothing Glint could say to make the man feel better. He was worried that Azrael was on some crusade to rid himself of his guilt. They needed tend to their own anvils, hoping for suitable blades. Thus, Glint plastered on his best smile when he entered the house. “Sorry mum, I think Michael’s a bit tired tonight...”
The Final Life Page 45
