by Kody Boye
Could he necessarily blame them though? They had, of course, questioned the reasoning beyond him being in the fifth tower, and had received no answer in response, so it was any wonder why they chose to disregard him with little more than a look. Even the men who had seemed to be paying attention to him—the Kadarian and the olive-skinned man in general—appeared disinterested in the utmost degree, but could they have been just for one simple slight of hand?
It’s ok, he thought, sighing. It’s only the first day.
So what, he wondered—some of the knights had already picked their squires, were already moving into the castle for their extended duration in the time of which they would prepare the teenage boys for their ascent into knighthood. Did it, in the end, really come down to how small you were or how you ‘looked?’ How could they know if he could or couldn’t do something just by looking at him?
They can’t he decided, because they don’t know what I can do.
Odin bowed his head.
It would seem as though this first day had gone horribly bad.
With nothing to do but to wait for Jordan, he began to whisper under his breath that things would be just fine.
What seemed like hours later, during a time in which Odin remained on the corner of the road with his legs crossed and his head bowed, Jordan returned bearing what appeared to be bad news. Face somber, expression plain and lips painted in a half-scowl, half-frown which seemed to make him hellish and entirely unpredictable, he let a sigh pass from his lips, crouched down beside Odin, then set a hand on his shoulder before he leaned forward and said the few telling words. “None of them were interested,” he said.
Why, Odin couldn’t be sure, for he knew himself to be a young man talented beyond the respects of most of his peers. His swordsmanship, his intuition, the intelligence gained from an uncanny memory that seemed never to forget a single word, letter or drawing and his magic for which he could be considered something of a God—for what reason did the men not want him under their jurisdiction? Did they feel as though he was dangerous, unruly, and for that was imprisoned within the forbidden fifth tower, or did they honestly and truthfully see only his size as a major issue when looking upon him and imagining a future with him in tow?
Does it matter? he thought.
It seemed not to, considering the fact that no man would be enlisting him today, and for that alone Odin found himself depressed considerably far beyond the levels he should have been.
“Lift your chin up,” Jordan said, then tapped Odin’s jawline for emphasis. “It’s only the first day.”
“But other pages have already found their squires.”
“Like I said, it was only the first day. There’ll be more.”
“You recommended me to each of them.”
“Just because they didn’t want you doesn’t mean that somebody else won’t.”
So you say, Odin sighed.
“I don’t want to go back to the tower,” he said.
“You have to, Odin.”
“I’ll go outside the castle grounds. Someone will let me stay with them until more knights come.”
“And how do you expect to find you outside these walls, or be treated as a squire if you’re not within these walls?”
“I—”
Resigned to his fate, Odin merely hung his head, stood, then brushed the dirt off of his pants and began to cross the distance back to the castle with Jordan close beside him. Aching, desperately, for the need to be free, he tilted his head back to survey the tower he would soon be returning to and couldn’t help but wonder just what the king might have thought of him staying up there alone and without human compassion.
If he really cared, he thought, then he wouldn’t have kept me up there for so long.
Had King Ournul been aware of his circumstance before permission for his temporary release been filed, or had he simply forgotten, preferring not to think about nothing at all in favor or having the entire world and its consequences upon his shoulders? Either way, the idea that the king had completely ignored him infuriated Odin to no end, and for that he began to stew in his emotion as Jordan led them down one side of the long halls and toward the revolving staircase that stood in attendance at the very end of the corridor. There, they would ascend the stairs, make their way up to the highest walls, then walk toward the very place he had spent the last two years of his life in—the fifth and final tower.
Where only the horrible are placed.
When they broke the space of the stairwell and made their way out and onto the walls, Odin had to resist the urge to look out and into the courtyard for fear that he would see yet more pages being chosen by the very knights whom had decided to leave him be.
“Jordan?” Odin asked, not bothering to turn his head to the side as they approached the tower.
“Yes?” the weapons master asked.
“I want to ask you something, but…”
“But… what?”
“I don’t know how to.”
“You don’t know how to ask the question?” the weapons master frowned, pausing halfway up bridge of the T.
“No, sir. I don’t.”
“You have no need to be nervous around me, Odin. I don’t judge you.”
“You haven’t judged me once since I came here.”
“I took a liking to you after you beat me in that spar. Call it better intuition, but I’d say you have a very bright future ahead of you.”
“Do you really think that, sir?”
“Do you not believe it?”
Do I, Odin thought, or am I just doubtful?
To have the entire world and all its populace against him would have made anyone question their place within the world.
When they approached the fifth tower and the guards began to remove, slide and place the keys into the deeper mechanism that powered the door, Odin turned his attention back to Jordan and found himself locked in a position where he knew nothing of his future and just what would become of him were he to remain in the tower for the next few years.
Raising his hand, Jordan bid him a short goodbye, then turned and made his way back down the bridge of the T.
“Your time’s up,” one of the guards grunted.
“Yeah,” Odin replied. “I know.”
After stepping into the fifth tower and listening to the locks sliding and clicking into place, he made his way to the mattress and collapsed atop it.
Maybe later, when his mind had settled some and his heart wasn’t in so many desperate places, he would find a way to form the words to ask the question he so desperately needed answered.
Evening came slowly and with little reward. Dozing, fitfully, between the hours he’d met with the knights and the time in which the sun began to set on the horizon, Odin turned to and fro in an attempt to lose himself in a world where there was no worry, consequence or fear. Much to his regret, however, each and every time he managed to fall asleep he dreamed of the tower and his eternal existence within it.
This is where you will stay, the voice in his head said, for the rest of your life.
Was that truly the case, though? Surely enlisting within the military held some form of emancipation, as one essentially signed their life away in order to serve beneath the king, but what would become of him when he turned eighteen and legally became a man? Would he be allowed to leave the tower and return home to Felnon, or would he be asked to remain within the service and wait for two more years once the knights came around for their second term? With no clear answers in sight, the questions did little to comfort him, as it seemed every logical answer could be explained away simply on the basis of him doing something morally illegal.
“Which I never did,” he mumbled, sighing.
From outside the door came the sound of muted voices and hushed negotiation.
Fearing the worst, Odin pushed himself upright, drew the blankets up over his waist, and waited for whatever it was to come.
The locks began to click out of place.
The metal bars ground against the door and screamed hellfire for their task.
No more than a few several moments later, the door opened to reveal Jordan—dressed, as usual, in his more formal attire for such a late hour of the day. “Odin,” he said, turning his head and gesturing the guards to close the door behind him.
“Sir,” Odin replied.
“Is everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine,” he said. “Why?”
“You said you were having trouble phrasing the question you wanted answered earlier.”
“Oh. That.”
He took several long moments to compose himself for what he was about to say. Eyes closed, breath even, cheeks burning likely from unease rather than any actual embarrassment—he considered himself foolish in that moment for expressing himself the way he was, but when he opened he eyes to look at the weapons master, he gave the slightest smile he could offer before expelling a held-in breath. “I’ve been thinking about it,” he said, bowing his head to look at the floor. “My question… it’s selfish, but—”
“No question is selfish unless it benefits the one who asks it.”
“It would benefit me, sir.”
Jordan nodded. He scratched his chin before seating himself on the lone, solitary stool within the room. “Ask your question, Odin.”
“I wanted… I wanted to know what would happen if a knight didn’t take me as his squire.”
“That’s quite a thing to ask, especially since you know someone’s going to take you as his squire.”
“No I don’t.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because most of the knights have already picked their squires.”
“There are more on the way.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about, sir.”
“To answer your question,” Jordan said, bracing his hands on his thighs before leaning forward, “you would likely be kept here.”
“Why?”
“Why?” the man laughed. “You committed a royal offense, Odin.”
“I didn’t do anything,” he mumbled.
“Either way, the sole reason you’re being held here is because the king believes you’re a danger to those around you.”
“Do you think that?”
“No.”
“Why won’t you say something about it then?”
“Because that would require me gaining an audience with the king. That could take months on end.”
I’ve been here for two years, he thought, and you haven’t said one word about me being up here this entire time?
Knowing more than well that expressing such thoughts would only land him in ill favor with one of the few men who actually gave a damn about him, Odin sighed and titled his head back up to look directly into his weapon master’s eyes. “Would they let me leave if someone didn’t pick me?”
“I’d imagine so, but where would you go?”
“Felnon.”
The idea of having to travel the four whole days by himself unnerved him to no end. It didn’t, however, mean he couldn’t do it, and while his confidence had plummeted throughout the past two years of being locked within the tower, he knew for a fact that his abilities both physically and magically would do more than well in allowing him to make his way back to his homeland without the need for a companion or possibly even a sword.
In the moments of silence that followed, Jordan merely stared at him, eyes plain and souring as the breaths of time continued to pass on.
“Would you really throw all this away?” the weapons master asked.
“Throw what away?” Odin replied. “This?” He gestured to the stone walls around him, to the mattress he sat upon and the door that stood no more than a few feet away.
“You realize this is only a temporary—”
“Temporary? I’ve been here for two years, goddammit!”
“Don’t speak to me in that tone!” Jordan barked. “You have no right.”
“Do I?”
The vein in the man’s temple began to throb.
Good, Odin thought, crossing his arms over his chest. Now you know how I feel.
Standing, Jordan turned and started to make his way to the door. Before he could get there, however, he stopped in midstride, as if forgetting something, before turning to face Odin. In his eyes the flames were bright, the wars heavy, the forbidden fruit ripe, and in his facial expression Odin could see a world of pain and torment—of being stabbed with daggers and ripped open by machines with iron gears. It would not matter whether he turned and walked away, Odin knew, because the damage had already been done, the unease vibrant, the boiling rage apparent, and while that did not mean Jordan would turn and slap him for his arrogance and outright disobedience, it had delivered a point that Odin had wanted made more than clear in light of his horrible situation.
While waiting for Jordan to respond, Odin began to tick down the moments—first one, then two, then finally three.
On the fourth and seemingly-final moment, the man let a sigh escape from his lips before leaning against the wall. “You asked if your question was selfish,” he said. “I would say no, as you’re worried about your wellbeing. That’s all.”
“Doesn’t that count as selfish though?”
“Let me tell you something, Odin—I’m of the opinion that if you’ve got nothing or no one to worry about, fearing for your own safety isn’t selfish. It may seem so, sure, but you above all else are more important in your life, right?”
“I… I guess.”
“And you, above anyone else, know what’s best for you. Right?”
“Right.”
“So in the long run, worrying about your own wellbeing is a good thing, because you as well as I both know that no one else is going to give a damn if you don’t.”
When Jordan turned and knocked on the door three times, he cast a glance back over his shoulder and gave him a smile comparable to several thousand diamonds shining along the side of the grandest mountain in the Three Kingdoms. “Don’t worry about being selfish,” Jordan said when the door opened. “Just worry about what you’re going to do with your life. I can’t make the decisions for you.”
Of course not.
Jordan departed and the door closed behind him.
The locks slid and clicked into place.
Odin sighed.
Outside, the world continued on.
If only inside it would as well.
Early the next morning, after a series of rash nightmares that threatened to wake him each and every time he beheld them, Odin woke to a cough so bad it hurt to even breathe, much less to actually expel whatever noxious fluid was inside of him. His throat raw, his chest aching as though it had been struck repeatedly with a wooden practice sword and his head warm and feeling as if it would simply begin to weep blood each and every moment, he lifted his hands to his face and tried desperately to keep from coughing.
When one of the fits went on for more than a few brief moments, paranoia sewed its seed in his heart and threatened to give birth to the flower of agony.
It can’t be, he thought, coughing, lifting his hands away to find blood staining his near-porcelain-pure skin. It just… it can’t.
The sun, which had since begun to rise during the time in which he’d developed his coughing fit, pierced through the sky and lit the opposite side of the room in tones of pale white and yellow. Such was the irony of his ailing situation that when he turned to hear the door leading into the tower slowly being unlocked he almost instantaneously began coughing once more.
The door opened, revealing a guard who stepped forward with a platter of likely-cold food. “What’s wrong with you?” the man asked, bending to set the platter of food on the stool beside the bed.
“I think I’m sick,” Odin said. “Can I have a glass of water?”
The man reached down to unclip the canteen at his side before offering it to Odin. “You can have that,” he said, watching Odin take several long
, laborious drinks. “It’s mine, but I don’t want to catch what you have.”
With little more than a nod to give his thanks, Odin capped the canteen, set it on the floor beneath him, then rolled up and onto his side, where he pulled the stool forward with a few meager tugs and shoved a biscuit into his mouth.
He ate for the next several moments in pure, bitter silence, realizing with each and every moment that as he shoved food in his mouth his situation was growing direr. His lungs, shriveled within his chest, ached like they’d just been exposed to hot air, while his throat felt as though whenever he swallowed that it was being scraped with rough writing paper and expected to maintain the mucus that compelled it so. Even his mouth—which, up until that moment, seemed fine—seemed dry, despite the fact that he took extra care in taking sips of water in order to alleviate his symptoms. That, however, did little to help, and by the time he finished eating and pushed himself back into bed, he found himself nearly unable to remain awake any longer.
As his head hit the mattress once more, only one thought occurred to him.
I won’t be able to see the knights today.
He knew not how long he lay there, staring at the ceiling and dozing between the realms of reality. Head heavy, eyelids drooping, vision out of focus and lips dry, he slicked his tongue across their surfaces every few moments in an attempt to remain awake and found himself unable to do so. Eventually, he dozed off and dreamed of nothing, but when the door opened what seemed like a good, several hours later, High Mage Daughtry peeked into the room.
