by Kody Boye
“Oh, I’m sure I do. It’s a nice compliment.”
“Have you ever thought of children?”
“Sometimes, yes, but not too often. I’m getting to the age where it might be a good idea to have one now before my insides get too unruly.”
“Is there a limit to where Dwarves can’t have children?”
“Not that I know of, no, but Elrig… he…” Carmen sighed. “He’s incapable.”
“Oh,” Odin sighed.
With a slight frown he hoped hadn’t been recognized, he leaned forward and allowed Carmen to finish braiding his hair. Shortly thereafter, she crossed the room to a dresser, where she haphazardly scaled its lengths by securing her feet along the individual drawer’s knobs before grabbing something from the top.
When she stepped forward, she held within her hands a rose the color of bright ruby crystal.
“That’s beautiful,” Odin said, almost unable to believe the jewel before him, which gleamed orange at the center as if there were a fire within its depths burning brightly throughout the night.
“Elrig gave it to me when we first met,” Carmen said, taking care to secure its teeth into his hair, then clasping it around his braid. “It looks good on you.”
“I don’t want to take it from you.”
“Oh, don’t worry—you’re not. I’m just loaning it to you. How’s that?”
“That works,” Odin said, standing, then turning to examine the hairpiece. “I can’t believe what you did to my hair.”
“I figured you’d like it the way it is. You might want to consider letting Katarina cut the ends off. They’re a bit dead, if you want to know the truth.”
“And probably a bit singed from all the close encounters I’ve had,” Odin laughed.
Turning, he kneeled down, lifted his hand, then smiled when Carmen reached up and slapped their palms together.
“The ball’s coming up pretty soon,” the Dwarf said. “Are you ready?”
“Not particularly,” he replied. “But there’s not too much I can do about it.”
Carmen merely shrugged.
His suit was tailored to royal expectations.
Standing before the mannequin upon which held the ensemble he would wear come the night of the ball, Odin found himself almost unable to comprehend what he was looking at in the strange, ethereal half-light that streamed in through the far windows. It was, by all definitions, beautiful, and could not be described in but a few simple words. In looking at it, however, Odin felt his heart swell with pride and his conscience brim with fire that could not have been found anywhere but in the kingdom.
“It’s,” Odin started, but stopped when the tailor stepped forward.
“I did my best,” the man shyly said, stepping forward and running a hand along one of the long sleeves. “What do you think of it?”
To think that he could ever explain his feelings made his head spin, for it seemed that he could not immediately piece together the way the creation was made by simply looking at it. His eyes fell first to the sleeves, unnaturally-long with white lace cuffs, then to the golden chest-piece, where beneath the frilled breast rested a white shirt adorned with black buttons. Upon every piece of golden fabric ran flourishes of brown threading that held mastership often only seem in paintings, and while the pants, though brown, were simple, with the promised belt holding it in place, the boots were black and shined as if polished by spit, creating upon any who looked upon it an impression of novelty.
“I don’t know what to say,” Odin said, awestruck by the masterpiece before him.
“That doesn’t settle my conscience any,” the tailor murmured.
“No. It’s not that. It’s just…” He paused, stepping forward to run his hand along the jacket, which seemed to have been made from lace.
“It’s just… what, sir?”
“Beautiful.”
At this, the tailor’s face beamed, shining like sunbeams reflected from diamonds. “You really think so, Sir Karussa?”
“I couldn’t have asked for a better suit,” Odin said, turning to face the man before reaching out and shaking his hand. “Thank you, sir, for giving me a masterpiece to wear at the ball.”
“A masterpiece,” the man said, looking up at his creation before them. “My work has never been called such things.”
“The details in it are absolutely amazing. Even this bit of threading, here, on the sleeve is just… it’s art, sir—pure, utter art.”
“That means the world to me, young man.” The tailor reached forward and began to disengage the mannequin’s limbs. “Would you like to take this now?”
“I would, yes.”
While waiting for the man to arrange the clothing, Odin couldn’t help but smile.
It thrilled him to no end to know that he would be attending the ball as a royal man.
“You look so handsome,” Virgin said, stepping up from behind and placing his hands on Odin’s upper arms.
“Thank you,” Odin sighed.
“What’s wrong?”
“I wish you were coming with me.”
“You know that’s not possible,” the older Halfling said, patting Odin’s arms before taking a few steps back. “I’ll watch from afar.”
“You won’t be anywhere near the ball.”
“That’s what I mean. Afar.”
The smile Virgin gave did little to settle Odin’s nerves.
Why can’t things be simple, he thought, and straightforward?
Would the members of the royal family really have a problem with him sleeping with another man?
Unable to know and not wanting to dwell upon it, Odin set a hand on his hip and began to toy with the smooth surface of his belt, that of which seemed to have been made from the highest-quality leather the area could have offered.
“Are you going armed?” Virgin asked, breaking Odin’s concentration from his reflection in the mirror.
“I’m the king’s champion. It wouldn’t look right if I weren’t.”
“I’m sure there will be enough security to ensure that nothing will go wrong.”
“You can never be too sure, especially when we’re still in the midst of war.”
Virgin had nothing to say.
Odin bit his lower lip.
A knock came at the door.
“Odin?” Katarina asked.
“I’m here,” he said, stepping forward when the door opened to reveal the woman’s smiling face. “You said you would cut my hair before I went?”
“If you’d like, yes.”
“I still need to put it in the braid. And use the rose Carmen gave me.”
“I’ll do that for you. Take your shirt off and come on out into the kitchen—it shouldn’t take terribly long.”
The eve of the ball came early and with a surprising amount of people. Come that evening, the individual members of the royal family began to make their way up the road and toward the front gate. Upon horse-drawn carts, carriages, of things mortal and earthly and bearing upon their shoulders an essence of royalty, they did much to attract the attention of the newly-flourishing town. Odin himself, standing on Nova and Katarina’s front porch, found it hard to believe that so many people would be attending, and for that began to shiver even though the chill was not severe.
“Here,” Virgin said, draping a cloak around his shoulders. “It’s too cold to go without a cloak.”
“It’s not that far of a walk.”
“I know. I just don’t want you freezing on the way back, especially if you return late.”
“I’ll be fine,” Odin said, reaching down to briefly touch Virgin’s hand before pulling it away. “Don’t worry about me.”
“You look great!” Carmen chimed in, peeking out from around Virign’s long legs to look Odin up and down. “Turn, please.”
Laughing, Odin did as asked.
“Perfect,” Katarina said.
“Thank you for cutting my hair,” Odin said, taking Katarina’s hand in his and kissin
g her knuckles. “And thank you, Carmen, for letting me use your hairpiece.”
“Just bring it back whenever you happen to return.”
“I will. Don’t worry.”
Turning, he looked up at the still-developing crowd, both royal and peasant, before taking his first step down the stoop and turning to look back at the group he considered his family.
So, he thought, giving each of them a nod when he stepped into the snow beneath the stoop. This is what it feels like to be wanted. To be loved.
When his eyes fell on the Halfling, Virgin gave him a slight, almost-unnoticed wink. Odin returned it promptly.
“I’ll be back before the night is up,” Odin said, checking to make sure his swords were secure before taking his first few steps toward the road. “If I’m not, don’t worry—just assume I stayed at the castle.”
“We will,” Virgin said. “Have fun.”
I’ll try.
With one last smile, Odin melded into the crowd, content that he would be attending his first royally-significant event in months.
To describe the ballroom as exquisite would have been to diminish its presence and insinuate that this royal occasional was little more than a formal gathering, for upon first impression Odin could do little more than stare. The walls freshly-painted, in hues of red and gold; the chandeliers bright, strung with beads and hanging like flowers; the tables many, the few sparse lined with people; the attendees tall, strong and agile, in shades of red, gold, brown and yellow—to look at the sight and decipher it was like laying one’s eyes on the pinnacle of existence and trying to calculate its regards. One could have compared it to seeing their first child born, bloody and slimy with placenta fresh from the mother’s womb, or like watching the sun explode and disintegrate everything around it. In looking upon the sight, and in taking in the amount of people, Odin became so overwhelmed that he nearly backed out of the ballroom without even taking one more step forward.
Too many people, he thought, panicking, his breath rasping in and out as if he were an old man lying on his deathbed. Too… many… people…
However nervous he happened to be, he could not allow himself to break away from his duty as the king’s champion, and while not alone—as he had, of course, arrived with guards flanking his sides and his swords at his belt—he seemed to be the first man standing before a hill and trying to gauge just what it was this mountain truly happened to be.
After shaking the idea from his mind, he wandered in the room crowded with men and women in the hopes of finding the man he so rightfully called his king.
“Do you see him?” Odin asked, biting his lower lip as what felt like another bout of anxiety began.
“The king?” one of the guards asked, waiting for a nod before he continued. “Not yet, sir. We’re looking for him.”
“Hurry, if you can.”
“Are you nervous?”
“No.”
Yes.
He bit his lip a second time.
In one pass of breath, he thought he would crack the skin and mark him as the ball of nerves he was.
Scanning the crowd for both his king and any relief from the growing crowd, Odin’s eyes fell to what appeared to be a table of refreshments and took his first step forward, into the room that could very well swallow him whole.
Behind him, the guards followed, hands slack at their sides but eyes ever alert.
When he reached the table and found himself in the company of not one, but nearly twelve men, Odin pardoned himself beside a man with snow-white hair and a frost of beard before pouring him a glass of the fruit punch.
“You’re armed,” the older man said, surveying Odin’s body so intently that Odin found himself a bit nervous. “Who might you be, sir?”
“Odin Karussa, sir.”
“Karussa, Karussa… that name sounds familiar.”
“He’s my champion,” a familiar voice said.
Odin sighed as Ournul’s hands fell upon his shoulders.
“You gentlemen may leave if you like,” the king said, turning his eyes to the guards standing no more than a few feet away. “Thank you for escorting my champion form Ornalia.”
“Ornalia?” Odin frowned.
“The name of the village beyond the walls.”
Ah, he thought.
A bit embarrassed at his ignorance regarding current affairs, he adjusted his position beneath his king’s towering height and sipped the juice, grimacing as what felt like the slight tang of alcohol rolled down his throat.
“I’ve heard many things about you, young sir,” the frost-bearded man said, reaching forward to shake Odin’s free hand.
“Good, I would hope.”
“Your king speaks highly of you.”
So you didn’t tell them I was gone.
At least he wouldn’t have to worry about falling into an uneven situation.
“Odin,” Ournul said, “I’d like you to meet Sir Kerin, the lord of Deeana.”
“Hello sir,” Odin said. “It’s an honor to meet you.”
“Sir Kerin and his daughter have only recently arrived, have you not?”
“Just this afternoon,” Lord Kerin said. “Have you happened to see my daughter, my lord?”
“Your daughter is quite the social butterfly,” Ournul smiled. “Perhaps you’ll send her in Odin’s direction next time you catch eye of her.”
“Oh, most definitely so.” Kerin narrowed his eyes on Odin as he lifted his drink. “So, young man… see anyone you like around here?”
“Pardon?” Odin frowned.
“You’ll have to excuse my champion,” Ournul said, once more pressing his hands upon Odin’s shoulders and tightening his grip around them. “He hasn’t had much time to… well, let’s say court a woman of his own.”
“That’s not surprising, considering all the work you’ve done. By the Gods—leading the arrest of the monks, freeing the boys from Ohmalyon and participating in the war. I’m surprised you’ve the energy to attend a royal gathering like this.”
Does he know? Odin thought, scrutinizing the man’s face for any discrepancies.
It would seem, based on Lord Kerin’s reactions, that he knew nothing of his near-year-long escape from beyond the Three Kingdoms, let alone his escapades across the Whooping Hills and into the Abroen Forest. That alone was enough to secure his notions that most, if not everyone, knew nothing of his disappearance, save his king, his friends and the few guards who’d been in attendance during the meeting. With that in mind, he lifted his glass and took a mighty drink, nodding to the lord before him as the juice burned down his throat.
They spent the next great while discussing the work Odin had done for the kingdom since his instatement into the royal family—mainly of arresting the Tentalin Monks, as well as his escapades in the war and the reclamation of Dwaydor. Ournul himself stood idly by and listened, occasionally sipping his drink and offering slight commentary, and even managed to bolster Odin’s confidence by saying that his stubborn champion had refused to stand by his side while his friends went off to fight in the war.
“It’s not something I would be necessarily proud of,” Kerin said, “but I can tell that you have a heart of gold, boy, just like our king here does.”
“Odin’s lost a lot in the years he’s been enlisted in my service,” Ournul said, clapping Odin’s back. “He lost people in the war.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, son. My condolences.”
“I appreciate it,” Odin replied, once more taking a sip of his drink.
Already feeling the effects of the alcohol taking hold, he decided to relinquish his hold on the mug brimming with spiked juice and set it on the table—where, unattended, it would sit and no longer bear any consequence upon his person. He briefly considered taking from the platter one of the sandwich squares, but he was soon distracted by a figure approaching behind Kerin with her arms crossed over her chest.
“Father,” the young woman said.
“Onlee!” Kerin
cried, thrusting a hand around the young woman’s shoulders and drawing her into his side. “Have you said hello to our king yet?”
“Hello sir,” Onlee said, bowing her head, then turning her eyes up to look directly at Odin.
She’s beautiful, he thought, almost unable to take his eyes off her face and the dark curls that ran alongside her head. She’s… everything anyone could ever want.
Whether it was the effects of the alcohol taking him he did not know, but as his eyes began to run the length of her face and, eventually, down to the swell of her breasts, he felt within him a great longing he had never before experienced for a woman, sober or not. Her eyes, chocolate-brown, seemed to pierce his soul, tangle his heart and freeze his emotions, while her low cheekbones captured her face in a sort of light he was not used to seeing in most women. Framed by her hair, captured by her bone structure, the entirety of her appearance—from her petite nose, to her thin lips and, ultimately, her well-defined jawline—seemed crafted only to attract his attention.
When the young noblewoman offered a smile Odin couldn’t help but return, he reached out to take his still-half-full glass once more and downed the last bit of alcohol within it.
“Onlee,” Lord Kerin said, “this is Odin Karussa, the king’s champion.”
“It’s an honor to meet you,” Oleen replied, extending her hand for Odin to both grace and kiss. “It’s been ages since we’ve last seen a champion, not since lord Isnot.”
“Your father?” Odin asked, waiting for Ournul’s nod before he returned his attention to Oleen—where, once more, his eyes took range of her body. “Sir… why didn’t your father’s champion stay behind to serve you?”
“Because Daelman was killed while in service to the kingdom,” the king sighed, reaching up to finger the bridge of his nose. “I hate to be rude, but let’s not talk about this right now. This is a time for celebration. There’s no need to dampen our spirits.”
“Of course not,” Odin replied.
“We should leave the two of you be,” Lord Kerin said, stepping away from his daughter’s side and approaching Ournul with a few short steps. “Your king and I have matters to discuss, young man.”
