Brotherhood Saga 03: Death

by Kody Boye

  “Of course not,” he said. “Thank you, High Healer.”

  “There is no need to thank me, Yamda Odin. Farewell.”

  “Farewell.”

  When Oleana gathered herself up and left the room, Odin turned his eyes on Virgin, who only smiled and offered a slight shrug in response.

  What could that mean?

  “So,” he said, easing further down onto the bed. “How did I do?”

  “You’ve done well, considering what you’ve went through. A sorry bastard like you should be dead.”

  “But I’m not.”

  “Which says something about your character,” Virgin said, easing forward and off the windowsill. “Your drive. Your determination to continue living on in this world.”

  “I’m not going to die just because some stupid animal wants me to.”

  “Nagani are much more than animal. You should know that.”

  “Yes, but—“

  What would one call a creature that existed halfway between pure primal instinct and common sentience? A chimera, a creature molded from two separate minds and merged into one, a freak of nature that occurred only in the grand scheme of things—by evolution, Virgin had said, or spawned by some innate magical energy that existed far too much within their world? Either way, it begged to question whether or not such creatures could feel emotion, or if they hunted out of instinct or of intelligent regard for what they were doing.

  The mage said the Nagani hunt those with ill intent.

  That surely had to mean the creature bore some form of intelligence, didn’t it?

  Sighing, Odin scooted over to allow Virgin onto the bed and closed his eyes when the older Halfling slid in beside him.

  “Don’t worry,” Virgin whispered. “You’ll be out of here in no time.”

  He could only hope.

  Odin rose from his tangled fit of sheets two days later after High Healer Oleana left the room with a clear and concise order to not aggravate his still-blooming injuries. Stretching his legs, flexing his muscles, taking care not to overextend his limits to the maximum degree—the first few moments out of bed were spent in pure, utter silence. Not a sound could be heard other than his and Virgin’s breathing, which seemed almost symbiotic in that single moment.

  “Are you all right?” Virgin asked.

  The tension now sliced, the ebb of unease in the air crackled and allowed to spill its yolky matter, Odin turned his eyes on his friend and offered a slight smile despite the fact that every part of his torso felt as though it were strung together by simple threads and mesh. “I’m fine,” he said, stretching his arms out as far as he could without hurting himself. “Don’t I look fine?”

  “You sure as hell don’t look like you were nearly killed.”

  Under Oleana’s careful and precise healing, his chest bore no scars or any indication that he had once sustained injuries life-threatening. Save for the slight discoloration that spanned his torso from his pectorals to his abdomen, nothing could be seen—not even the slightest, minute scratch.

  “I feel all right,” Odin said, swinging his arms at his side. “Do I sound ok?”

  “You sound fine.”

  That’s good, he thought.

  With a smile across his face and a new lease on his current position flooding his mind, Odin stepped toward the windowsill and braced his hands along the wood siding that made up the ornate frame to the outside world. “Oleana didn’t mention anything about looking into me apprenticing for a High Mage, did she?”

  “No,” Virgin said, stepping up beside him and sliding an arm around his waist. “She didn’t.”

  “Virgin… can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “You’ve been a bit…”

  “What? Touchy-feely?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Does it make you uncomfortable?”

  “No.”

  It felt anything but uncomfortable, if he were to be completely honest. Two hearts could easily be one once bonded together, two bodies intertwined in the heat of one single moment. An arm could be a third limb, a leg an orphaned twin, the pass of breath a machine of power that could operate under one single conscience. One need not think too strongly of such things to know that another person’s touch merited the world and its attention, for that alone was enough to make men like him feel as though they were something special and grand—pure, even, and blessed in the utmost fires, for it was not without mercy from another that one could bestow upon themself the right of conscience that all should have when in the presence of another.

  What do I say, he thought, to a question I’m not sure how to answer?

  When no answer came and no action followed, Odin bowed his head and allowed Virgin to trail his cheek along the side of his face until his lips fell to his jaw. There, Odin tilted his head up just slightly to look into Virgin’s eyes, only to be met by a kiss granted on his upper brow.

  “If you think I’m being too personal,” the Halfling whispered, “you can say something. I won’t push this if you’re not willing.”

  “It’s not that I’m not willing. It’s just…”

  “Just… what?” Virgin frowned.

  “I’ve just never considered myself—”

  “Queer?”

  Odin couldn’t help but nod.

  “Labels are for people who want to put a name to the way they feel, Odin. You as well as anyone should know that.”

  “I know. It’s just easier to have a name for it, especially when you’re not sure about the situation.”

  “Let me ask you something.”

  “All right.”

  “Do you feel anything when I hold you like this—with my arm around your waist?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What do you feel?”

  How could he describe a cosmos of emotion? There was no name for a rain of fire, a flame of moisture or the tangible kiss of a bug, nor was there a synonym from which he could derive a plaintive word that could entail the way he felt. Sure—there seemed to be something there: a spark, possibly, or maybe even a pyre of flame—but how he would describe that was beyond his measure. Maybe he could simply say he did not know—could not, in Layman’s terms, speak of what it was he felt—or maybe he could just say nothing at all. Was silence not the most simple of answers in moments of weakness and unease?

  No, Odin thought. I can’t do that to him.

  Virgin as well as anyone deserved a proper answer, especially regarding matters so close to the heart.

  “I,” Odin began. A knot of unease formed inside his throat, drowning his words before he could even speak.

  “Odin?” Virgin frowned.

  “I feel like nothing can happen to me,” he said, turning his had to stare into the Halfling’s eyes. “Like I’m in my own little world where nothing can hurt or touch me.”

  “Do you like that feeling?”

  Yes.

  “More than anything else in the world,” he sighed.

  “Does it matter then what other people might think or say?”

  No.

  Did it, though? Did it really, truly matter whether or not another man looked upon him in scorn and considered him something less than human—a deviant, low-life creature that laid upon the bottom of the sea and sucked the scuzz and shit from other seafaring creatures? One could say that it did—because in this day and age, personal opinion meant the world—but when he looked into his past and granted himself a single, concise look at the men who had shaped his life and whose friendships he harbored, he could not help but feel another person’s opinion didn’t matter, for evil dwelled in places obvious and foolhardy and could never be stopped no matter what.

  “No,” he whispered, only turning his head up when he felt the moment necessary and true. “It doesn’t.”

  “I’m glad,” Virgin said, “because it makes me feel so much better knowing that you have a clear conscience about the way we feel about each other.”

  Odin closed his eyes.
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  When Virgin wrapped both arms around his body and pressed up against his back, Odin couldn’t help but feel as though the world was but a simple place where they were the only two fish in the sea.

  The night came swiftly and would have swept Odin into a land of dream had a storm not come to wreak terror above Lesliana. His head on Virgin’s chest, their hands entwined, their limbs locked, secured and placed within one another’s—it could have been a perfect moment were lightning not shattering the sky and thunder growling upon the horizon, and while he tried his hardest to fall back asleep, he found it almost impossible to in the midst of such unexpected tragedy.

  What are you scared of? his conscience taunted. It’s just a storm.

  It seemed not to matter whether he had endured such things before—had, in past circumstance, slept beneath a tent while Gods struck their hammers overhead or under a thicket of trees that occasionally showered them with teardrops of moisture—because in that very moment, something seemed completely, utterly wrong.

  Trembling despite the warmth ebbing from Virgin’s body, Odin closed his eyes as tightly as he could and squeezed his companion’s hand in the hopes that it would somehow bring some form of comfort.

  Outside, the angry beast in the sky growled on.

  “Come on,” he whispered, adjusting the position of his head on Virgin’s chest. “Get over yourself. You’re acting like a kid.”

  Was he, though? As a child, he could recall standing before the windows sweeping across the southern end of his father’s living room and watching the lightning crack the sky in two. At times, he remembered, it resembled something like spider webs, woven by such great creatures that could and should not be named, and during others it could strike the air so fiercely that it transcended the boundaries of normal color to create a collage of horror across the horizon. Red, blue, yellow, sometimes even violet—his father had always told him that being too close to a window could result in one’s demise: that once, as a child himself, one of his peers had been struck through the heart and killed instantly while standing before a pane of glass. That, however, had not dissuaded Odin’s pursuit any, and while his father had often warned him against such things, he had never listened. Stubborn child or not, he’d held his own even when it seemed to strike closer each time he looked, so why now, of all times, did he have to be afraid, when he was a fully-grown adult sleeping with a partner?

  You’re just freaking yourself out, he thought, sighing, stroking the slight hair at Virgin’s stomach and pressing his hand flat against his companion’s abdomen. Don’t worry.

  Things would be fine, he knew, were he to allow himself peace.

  Softening the hold on his eyes, he pursed his lips and attempted to strike the flame of which normally sparked the fire of sleep.

  One moment passed, then two.

  A rumble of thunder echoed through his ears.

  A flash of white filled his vision.

  Odin opened his eyes.

  Though he could see nothing of the sort, he couldn’t determine where the illumination could have come from.

  “You’re getting yourself wound up for no reason at all,” he mumbled.

  “Huh?” Virgin asked.

  “Nothing,” Odin said, straightening his posture alongside his companion and resting his head on the pillow next to him. “Go back to sleep.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No. Nothing’s wrong.”

  “All right,” the Halfling mumbled.

  Rolling onto his side, Odin closed his eyes, drew his legs up to his chest, then began to count backward—first from the three-digit decibel of one-hundred, then slowly and as carefully backward as he could.

  One-hundred came first, followed by ninety-nine, then ninety-eight.

  A second flash of light greeted his vision.

  When he opened his eyes a second time, he saw before the bed a thing he thought he would never again see in his entire life.

  Hovering off the ground and producing a constant flow of white that seemed to come out of nowhere and reflect everywhere at the same time, the orb of light he had seen floating along the skirt of the Dwaydorian road levitated no more than three feet away from his head and offered a slight movement that could relate to some kind of intelligence. At first it seemed only to shake left and right, to and fro; then, out of nowhere, it began to bob up and down, much like a ball when bounced along a hard surface, and came closer with every fluctuating movement.

  Paralyzed likely not only by fear, but the distinct possibility that he could be suffering some kind of pre-sleep abnormality, Odin could only blink and tighten his fingers around the sheet as the orb came closer to the side of the bed.

  No.

  It couldn’t be. Sources of light did not appear for no reason at all. There could be no magical source in the air, for he felt no tingle along his skin, and this could be no microscopic star in the sky that had fallen to the earth only to shine upon the world because stars, though able to fall, never persisted until they touched the land. For those reasons alone, there seemed no purpose for this thing, other than to illuminate a warning or offer catalyst to what his future could be, and for that his terror seemed all the more merited.

  “Virgin,” he was able to whisper, the word drawn out and strangled within the constricted confines of his throat.

  The Halfling said nothing.

  Could Virgin even hear, smell, see, breathe in that very moment? If he could, Odin couldn’t know, for it seemed that no matter how hard he tried, all sense of knowledge had been cut off.

  It began as a low hum that escalated in pitch when the somber note rose to a fluctuating falsetto that vibrated within the air and wind. First this sound echoed across the room, amplifying its affect and radius until no space was left behind—then, slowly, it seemed to affect everything. The floorboards began to crack, the windows vibrate, the end tables jitter like scared rats being chased by a mouse and the mattress bounce as if two people were upon it making love. It seemed, without any rational explanation, that the world was about to end—that regardless of how normality ruled their lives, the earth was about to cave in and reveal a world beneath that was something less than stellar. That in itself was enough to force tears from Odin’s eyes and blood from his lower lip when his teeth sunk too far in, but what might have terrified him the most was the fact that something began to reflect from inside the orb.

  Within this creation’s isolated confines of light, he saw the face of someone he thought had died weeks ago.

  Father.

  A creature born of two flesh, two blood, two parables conjoined but completely isolated in two different parts of the world—this was the thing who had abandoned him at birth and found him in youth: when, for all the purpose in the world, he had appeared garbed in black and offered him salvation from a place hellish and starved of life. For four years he had known this man, this creature, this great stag of the Elven race, and for four years he had come to know that creature as someone who could be the man that had created him. It had been but some weeks ago that he had died, and while still ever closer in his heart, this illumination could well reveal that existence did continue upon the other side of life.

  “Father,” he whispered.

  Odin, the orb replied.

  Completely monotonous and sounding nothing like Miko, its voice spread through the air like a wave of water forced through a strait only to wash onto a beach broad and without any natural break. This sound, as dull as it was, seemed to shine with radiance that could have made him blind, had it a source of light, but since it did not, Odin simply allowed it to flood through his ears and into his mind, all the while crying as it fully connected that this thing was so much more than he could have ever possibly imagined.

  “Are you,” he said, then stopped as a strangled sound echoed from his throat.

  Behind him, Virgin tensed.

  No.

  He couldn’t wake now, not when he was so close.

  Odin,
the construct said.

  “Tell me what you are,” he said. “Tell me what you’re doing here.”

  Odin.

  Odin.

  “Odin.”

  He barely realized the word had flown from his lips until he felt blood running down his chin.

  The floating orb of light floated back until it hovered directly against the wall.

  Odin.

  “I don’t know what to do,” he whispered. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

  Odin.

  “Please… answer me.”

  Odin.

  Its luminescence began to fade.

  As the tears flowed down his face and mixed with the blood at his chin, Odin considered for a moment that he could now be closer to his father than he ever thought before.

  He closed his eyes. He braced his heart. He waited for the thing before him to fade into the air as though nothing had ever really happened.

  A grey hue began to flow over his vision.

  When he opened his eyes, he saw the construct holding on to what could arguably be its last moments of its short existence.

  Odin, it said.

  The word floated through the air like a hum before it died away.

  When the sound faded, the construct, too, disappeared from sight.

  Odin curled into a ball and cried.

  “Did something happen last night?” Virgin asked.

  “No,” Odin said, buttoning his jerkin into place.

  To anyone looking upon the situation, they could have said his outright lie was bold and brass enough to have been crowned something of a wonder. Their lips, had they been there, would have said that yes, something had happened, and yes, that something had affected one of them to the point where they shed tears and blood. However, since there were no eyes, no lips, no faces, ears or noses, there would be no speaking the truth, because in that moment, Odin had not the reason to tell his companion what had transpired the night before.

  “I remember you waking me up,” the Halfling said, turning his attention to vaguely regard him as Odin made his way across the room, toward where his swords lay propped against the wall. “That did happen, right?”

  “It stormed last night.”