by Kody Boye
Odin bowed his head.
Though he could not tell whether fresh tears were streaming down his face due to the rain, he felt as though from the way the corners of his eyes burned that he had to be crying.
I’m sorry, I thought. There was nothing else I could do.
You could’ve ran, the voice said. They wouldn’t have been able to keep up with you.
But they would’ve hurt someone else.
Would they, Odin, or would they have simply wandered off into the dark from wherever they came from?
He reared his head back and screamed.
Lightning cracked the sky.
The rain continued to bear down upon him.
When hail began to fall—when small, icy chunks of moisture struck his face to crack upon his porcelain portraiture his marks of flaw—Odin led his horse under the canopy of trees and tried his best not to fall from his mount.
How much further could he go living like this?
It would have been beautiful, were he to have seen it in a different frame of mind. A river, curving first to the west, then to the south, an intricate loop that seemed perfect and without break whatsoever, a vine upon which all life was sewn, stretched forth and arced in three—the Forked Sylinian Rivers began as though a knot on a grand king’s boot and then branched out to the east in two intricate flourishes, much like an artist’s pen would have described were it to have been placed quill to paper. After such a long journey, the sight was enough to lift Odin’s spirits, if only slightly, for he was making way in his journey toward a place he could find the answers to all of life’s questions.
Thank you, he thought, to whoever out there is watching me.
With such low food, rations and supplies, it was any wonder he had made it this far without having to resort to hunting, much less without hunger in his stomach or a throat parched and dry. He had no doubt of his abilities and endurance, of his perseverance through life and the horrible agony that laced his heart, but it seemed as though something had to be watching, testing him for some sort of boundary that could not be crossed yet was very willingly ready to open.
Odin raised his hand and shielded his eyes.
On the distant horizon, the river reflected light from the midafternoon sun and made it sparkle like a thousand uncut stones in a bed of rock.
It’s beautiful, Odin, the voice of a young man named Parfour said in his head. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen.
Bejeweled across the horizon, shimmering like thousands of pearls fresh from a clam’s mouth, spread along the whitewashed shores and allowed to bathe in heavenly light—it could have been described as magma, a great thing said to flow from the tips of mountains in the great wandering distance, for it seemed stricken across the horizon and nestled within the perfect, ample spot—but here it was, resting there contently. It was said that beautiful things, although truly vain, loved to hide. This was not one of them.
No more than a few hundred feet away lay one of two bridges that cleared the expanse of river on the western side.
It wouldn’t be much longer before he made his way into Sylina.
From there, he thought, Germa.
And from Germa, where? The Whooping Hills, fabled for the once-flourshing Centaurs now extinct and buried in the ground, and what about the Great Divide, the expanse of land that separated the Hills and the Abroen, a place they said life began and sometimes never ended at all? What would he come across there if not a mass of nothing?
“Who knows,” Odin whispered, drawing his cloak tighter around his body.
Though he knew not what to expect once in Sylina, he had a feeling that he may be recognized were he not to keep his hood pulled down.
He crossed the wooden bridge that led into Sylina and made his way across the shoreline with little doubt in his mind about the situation at hand. Hood drawn, swords shielded by his cloak and face all but invisible to the human eye, he felt beyond a doubt that he had not a worry in the world when it came to being noticed or spotted in any way, shape or form.
What a spectacle that would be, he thought, pushing his horse into a faster, more casual trot.
For the king’s champion to be seen so far away from not only the war, but the capital would have been a national offense. Sure—he may have a concrete reason for leaving, and his sanity may have been at the breaking point, but did that mean he had all the right in the world to leave his king and country behind?
Does it really matter?
Brushing the idea from his mind, Odin shrugged it off his shoulders as though loose dirt and thanked the fact that he’d since drawn his hood when he ventured deeper into the Sylinian territory and found fishermen to be wandering the shores. Baskets balanced at their hips, atop their heads and others upon wheelbarrows normally reserved for wood or other heavier materials, they walked back and forth snaring nets from the water and drawing into them fish alive and full of fervor. Most waved and acknowledged his presence with a smile, while those shirtless and with sunburnt shoulders simply regarded him with little to no interest, eyes raised and then quickly drawn back to their work. To them, he knew, he was nothing more than a stranger—a man, by all respects, that did not need any merit.
“Good,” he whispered, low enough so none of the passing men could hear.
If they weren’t able to gauge who he was just by looking upon his dark cloak, then he could possibly make it through this venture without any awkward interference.
Thank the Gods.
Taking a moment to acknowledge a man who raised his hand to wave at him, Odin turned his attention on the slowly-blooming city before his vision and found his breath had since caught in his chest, strangled within his throat and allowed to die viciously after being drowned by spit.
The sight before him could almost not be described.
Extending into the far horizon as though slabs of marble arranged from the earth and pressed together to form homes, buildings and monuments, the city of Sylina took on a breathtaking hue in shades of grey, white and silver. Gold-lined exteriors likely made by artisans’ hands decorated the frames of most buildings, while around fountains creatures of water and even of the earth were born from the creation of stone and spouted the very thing they either came from or represented from their mouths, blowholes or fins themselves. The roads brickwork, the posts lanterns were hung upon crisp ebony, the windows sparkling blue and the monuments tall and strong—in the looming distance he saw what appeared to be a temple, atop which was a halo that extended into the sky and seemed to glow within the midafternoon sun, and beyond that he saw miniature rivers running through the town, snaking alongside the roads and beckoning those who looked upon it to smile and be glad for all things.
This is it, he thought.
“The place where Parfour learned to be a man of God.”
A chill crossed the surface of his spine and crested the curves of his collarbone before echoing down his arms and into his hands, which trembled at the sight and shook the horse from its natural path. First left, then right, Odin tightened his hold on the creature’s reins and willed it forward and across a small, foot-high bridge that passed over a small moat that seemed to circle and encompass the entire city. Several more spanned beneath his horse’s hooves—three in total from which he began to count—though in this frame of sight, they seemed to have been made into canals not only to decorate the city, but to supply water to the individual buildings.
It was nothing like Ornala, this beautiful, concrete place, nor was it like the wooden heights of the now-taken Bohren or the hidden passages of the darkened wood of Felnon. Dwaydor was not like this—this beautiful, wayward town—and though Elna had resembled many a place along the shore in nature, it had never been constructed out of marble. Sylina, in a short word, could be described as something of a marvel—a place where, regardless of height or stature, one could live happily and in peace.
“Excuse me,” Odin said, pulling his horse to a complete stop as a woman stepped from her home
and into the street. “Can I ask for your help, ma’am?”
“Of course you can, sir. What would you be needing?”
“Directions to a convenient store. Somewhere where I can get supplies.”
“It’s the last building to your right at the end of the street.”
“Thank you,” Odin said, bowing his head.
He pushed his horse down the road in the hopes that he would be able to find just what it was he needed.
“You’re looking to buy a map that details the lands beyond the country,” the shopkeeper behind the desk said, running his finger along and around a series of portholes that contained what appeared to be wrapped pieces of parchment. “Am I correct on that assessment?”
“You would be, sir.”
“What business would you be having out there, if you don’t mind me asking?”
I wouldn’t mind if it weren’t so personal, Odin thought, sinking his teeth into his lower lip and desperately hoping he wouldn’t draw blood.
“I’m an adventurer,” he said, reaching down to make sure both of his swords were evenly in place at his belt.
“An adventurer?” the man asked. “Where might you be going, lad?”
“The Whooping Hills.”
“Ah. Quite a beautiful place if I do say so myself.”
“You’ve been there?”
“Yes. Any novice archaeologist like me would love to visit such a place. You know the Centaurs used to live there, you know?”
“I know,” Odin said.
Who could forget how when humanity discovered Centaurs they’d driven them from their homes—some killed outright, others put into menageries and forced to live their entire lives within cages. Birds, he would have thought them, were he to have existed such a long time ago, forced to put on a show in front of everyone and everything, and birds they had been until some hundreds of years ago, after the last of them had died and the country had been born anew.
Were you there? he thought, bowing his head and reaching up to rub his temple.
Before him, the man shifted and began to sift through pieces of parchment while Odin’s head remained bowed and his hand strayed to his face. The strand of purple hair dangerously close to slipping from behind his ear, he raised his eyes, took in the scene, then straightened his posture, if only to better serve his purpose.
He wouldn’t be here that much longer. He had to keep telling himself that.
“Here we are,” the storekeeper said, unfurling a piece of parchment and spreading it on the glass counter before Odin. “Is this what you were looking for?”
To say yes would have been an understatement. The map alone—created and devised to show the very outskirts of Ornala and Germa—displayed in great detail the Whooping Hills and the areas nearby, including the Great Divide and the Dark Mountains, which lay far to the west and blanketed a place where no scrawls other than their outlines remained.
The one thing between us and Denyon, he thought, unable to resist the pull of a shiver that weighed down upon his spine.
“What else would you be needing, sir?”
“Food, flint, a stone—anything you have.”
“I can get you anything you want,” the man said, leaning forward and over the counter. “Just tell me what you need.”
Odin couldn’t help but smile.
Though his natural inclinations told him to continue on in his journey, he managed to restrain himself just long enough to purchase a room at the Sylinian Inn with a few meager copper pieces. Once in his quarters and behind a firmly-locked door, he freed himself of his cloak and the burdens that came with it and collapsed into bed in his full, nondescript attire, his mind afire with pleasure as his fingers tangled around quilts and sheets carefully spread out beneath his body.
Enjoy this while you can, his conscience whispered, weighing down upon his chest and desperately attempting to force himself deeper into the mattress. You’ll be going for another month.
He’d already been going for some two weeks, making way across the Dwaydorian Lowlands and passing through the flatlands around Sylina, but after the Whooping Hills, then what? He knew not how great the plains of the Great Divide were, nor was he sure of just how to navigate the Abroen without venturing toward death. In all, it could take him months to get to Lesliana and then back again, though whether or not he would return unattended was beyond his current scope of comprehension.
Would an Elf come back with him if he was so inclined to ask?
No. Of course not.
Elves were of solitary nature. If Miko had been any indication—and surely, Odin thought, he had to have been—then each and every creature fair and of the highest regard often preferred silence and the kindness of only occasional strangers. Though one could plainly argue that Miko was tainted and therefor expelled from both everyday Elven society and habit, Odin couldn’t help but base his preconceived notions around the fairer race on his now-fallen friend, especially when it came to whether or not he could have one return to the country with him were his conscience to fall.
Then again, what was he thinking? He was going to the Elven capital to steal a book to try and raise his dead father.
You can’t think about that, he thought, the words whispering under his breath as his conscience began to falter. You can’t… not now, not here of all places.
All he needed was to have an emotional meltdown here in a public place. Surely someone would come if he screamed, wouldn’t they?
Pushing himself forward, then balancing himself in an awkward, upright position, he trained his eyes to the far window and tried not to lose himself in the beauty of the many fountains surrounding the inn.
He could live here the rest of his life, he imagined, had he a choice.
Sadly, and without regret, he had none of that.
Closing his eyes, Odin bowed his head and tried his hardest not to cry.
It was moments like these, next to empty windows, that he missed the man who’d called him son the most.
He pulled himself from bed in the early hours of the evening and trotted downstairs in full garbed attire. With plans to order a glass of wine in the hopes of developing a buzz that would hopefully allow him to sleep, he buckled his swords at his sides and made his way down the stairs, his breath caught within his throat and his nerves all but fried from the amount of attention seemingly placed upon him.
It’s all right, he thought, taking a slow, deep breath. You’re just in a bar. Nothing’s going to happen to you.
Still, being in such a personal position of power—of, in this case, shame—offered disadvantages that he couldn’t afford to have.
Seating himself at the end of the bar where he could afford himself the luxury of three empty stools between him and his fellow man, he called the bartender over with a simple wave of his hand and sighed when the man set a shot glass filled with what appeared to be an amber-looking liquid before them.
“You’re new here,” the young, olive-skinned man said, eyeing him up and down as Odin took the shot and set it back down on the bar. “What brings you to Sylina?”
“A stop.”
“For what?”
Peace, Odin thought. Silence.
“Just to rest for a while,” Odin replied, nodding when the bartender pulled the glass away.
“What can I get for you?”
“Wine, if you have it.”
“Red or white?”
“Red.”
While the man turned and pulled from the shelf a bottle capped but not completely full, Odin reached up to rub the bridge of his nose, unsure about the talkative man before him and the incessant looks he seemed to be giving regardless of his darkened visage. Perhaps he was just being cautious, maybe even a bit paranoid, but regardless, the looks didn’t help to ease his worries.
“Here you are,” the bartender said, setting a glass full of brimming, red wine before him.
“Thank you.”
“Can I ask where you’re from?”
&n
bsp; “Ornala,” he said, cursing himself shortly after when he realized the severity of his words.
“Ornala,” the man said, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back as if to examine him. “Say… you wouldn’t happen to be anyone important, would you?”
“Would you believe me if I told you no?”
“Probably not,” the man laughed, “but no matter. Kick your feet up. No matter who you are, there’s nothing to be ashamed of here.”
“I’m well aware of that.”
“What I meant,” the young man said, leaning forward until they were close enough for their noses to touch, “is to take your hood off.”
“Do I have to?”
“It’d make me more comfortable if I could see who I was looking at.”
Odin swallowed the lump in his throat.
No, he thought, he couldn’t be.
No matter what he thought or wanted to believe, the smile never left the man’s face, nor did he erase the distance between the two of them in the moments following his silence.
“You don’t have to say anything,” the man whispered, reaching across the bar to press his hand against Odin’s shoulder. “You can go back up to your room and I can follow you, knock on the door once and then twice. You’ll know who I am.”
“There’s no need for that.”
“I’m not asking you to pay me.”
“I never said—“
“There’s nothing to be nervous about. Come on—just one night, you and me. What could it hurt?”
“I’m not looking for someone to sleep with,” Odim mumbled, leaning back just far enough so he could lift his glass and sip his wine.
“No one is when they come in here, but that doesn’t mean you can’t have a little fun.”
“I’m fine,” Odin said. “Please… just… don’t—“
Don’t what? his conscience whispered. Admit that maybe one torrid night would ease your mind and settle your spirits?
He could hardly say that one night alone and intimate with someone would ease his mind, his troubled spirit or his weary, disengaged soul. For what it was worth, one could easily say that one moment could replace another—that, given the situation, he could possibly overwhelm himself in another person in order to free himself from the perpetual darkness that seemed to rule over his soul.
