by Kody Boye
“My mother used to tell me how handsome I looked when I was younger,” the boy said, turning his head down when he was unable to look at himself any longer. “She used to tell me that all the girls would giggle whenever I walked by because they thought I was cute. This… this… this isn’t something anyone would ever want.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I’m not normal anymore,” Parfour sobbed. “Because they don’t want someone who looks like a freak.”
“You are not a freak,” Odin said, taking Parfour’s shoulders and turning the boy around so he could face him. “Look at me, Parfour—if anyone’s a freak, it’s me.”
“You’re not a freak.”
“Look at me,” Odin said. “What do you think people think when they see that I have red eyes? Huh? What do you think it’s like to walk up to someone and have to worry about what they think just because of the color of your eyes? Or how about this—what do you think it’s like to be seven years old and not have any friends because they think you’re a monster?”
“I—”
“Parfour,” Odin said, tightening his grip on the boy’s shoulders. “You are not a freak.”
“How can you say that?”
“How can I say that?” Odin laughed. “Look at me. Look at this.”
For the first time since he acknowledged the horrible, ugly truth of his past nearly three years ago, Odin pulled his hair back and revealed his elongated, disfigured ears. Sharpened by nature but not completed by biology, the bumps and curves that divvied the cartlidge spoke wonders of his unnatural, sometimes-disgusting lineage. Parfour, who’d kept his eyes locked on Odin’s until that very moment, ceased his protest and silence his tears.
In the moments that followed, the well of the boy’s eyes dried up, relinquishing hold of all the tears it held. “You’re,” he began. “You’re—”
“A Halfling,” Odin whispered, pulling his hair back over his ears. “You wonder why I always wear my hair down? Well, now you do. Now you know why no one ever wanted to play with me. Now you know why they used to call me the monster’s child.”
“Why—”
“This isn’t something I can change,” Odin said, returning his hands to Parfour’s shoulders. “You, though… your eye will heal. Sure, there might be a scar or some discoloration, but is it going to stay that way? No—it isn’t. What you have is merely a flesh wound. That’s something that’ll change, something that’ll get better. I can’t change the way my eyes or ears look.”
Parfour said nothing. Closing his one good eye, he waited a moment for the realization to set in, then turned to look at him in the mirror. “Will I lose my eye?” the boy asked, voice clear of any solemn emotion.
“I don’t know,” Odin sighed. “If that’s all you lose… oh well. At least you’re alive.”
Parfour nodded. This time, a tear slipped from his eye. “Thank you, Odin,” the boy whispered. “Thank you.”
With dawn came salvation—not only for the restless, but for the strongest, greatest star in the sky.
Rising over the horizon like a strangled butterfly just freed of its chains, the sun bled clouds orange and darkened the sea in the wake of its heavenly gift, forcing life from each and every corner of the world. From the sea came the fish, who jumped in glee, while the sky brought the gulls that cawed and cried for the new day to begin. And from the dark, restless water beneath the sea, and from which they did not belong, creatures who breathed air and gave birth to live young giggled when forced to come to the surface, lured not only by the promise of warmth and the grace of trust, but the air—the truly, greatest must.
Without a doubt in the world, and without the slightest doubt in the minds of those that could comprehend, the greatest thing the sky could offer came from a glowing fireball that no one and no mortal thing could touch.
Standing at the foot of the railing with his arms draped over its surface, Odin stared out at the sunrise and tried not to imagine the troubles the day might hold.
Everything’s going to be fine, he thought, taking a deep breath of the cool morning air. Everything’s going to be just fine. You know that.
“Hopefully,” he mumbled.
Sighing, Odin leaned forward and continued to watch the sun rise, squinting at the pulsing fireball that continued to creep over the horizon. At such an early hour of the morning, he took comfort in the fact that no one except himself graced the front deck, though he couldn’t help but feel a slight sense of abandonment that came with it. Save for the occasional, drunken sailor stumbling out from below deck to puke his guts out over the railing, Odin had the ship to himself, both a pleasantry and a punishment at the same time. Not even Domnin or Icklard could be seen tending to the sails.
Oh well. You can’t expect them to keep you company.
Taking a few steps back, Odin slid his hands into his pockets and continued to watch the horizon.
In the back of his mind, a part of him hoped it would last forever.
Peaceful, tranquil, full of serenity and without a care in the world—how could anyone ask for a better moment?
Knowing full and well that the sun would soon become too much to bear, Odin turned and prepared to make his way toward the stairs, but stopped when he caught signs of movement on the upper deck.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Jerdai asked, making his way down the steps.
“Yes sir,” Odin nodded. “It is.”
“Not too often you wake up in time to see something like this,” the captain continued, reaching down to draw his pipe from his belt. “You smoke, son?”
“No sir. Why?”
“I was going to ask you to light this for me.”
“Oh,” Odin frowned. “What made you think I wouldn’t light it if I didn’t want to smoke with you?”
“Common courtesy. You wouldn’t catch me lighting someone’s pipe if they wouldn’t let me smoke some of it.”
“It’s fine. Here—hold it out. Keep your fingers back though. I don’t want to burn you.”
“You and me both kid,” Jerdai chuckled, holding the tobacco pipe steady.
Smiling, Odin extended a finger and sparked a flame at the tip of it, careful to keep his arm steady as to not accidentally burn Jerdai. Once the glass head glowed with life, the captain retracted the pipe and set it to his lips, nearly moaning with pleasure as he took his first puff. “Thanks,” Jerdai said, settling down on the bottom stair. “I appreciate it.”
“You don’t have to thank me,” Odin said, turning to look back at the horizon. “Sir… can I ask you a question?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“You mentioned that you aren’t normally up this early. What’s so different about today?”
“Honestly, nothing. Truthfully…” Jerdai sighed. “That’s a different story entirely.”
“Is something wrong?”
“No, Odin—that’s the good thing about it. Nothing is wrong, absolutely nothing. I’ve been more at peace in the last few months than I have in years.
“How come you’re out of bed then?”
“I came out to smoke, then saw someone walking around on the deck. At first I thought it was another one of the drunks, so I came over to yell at them. Then I saw it was you and, well… I wanted to talk.”
“About what?”
“About you, the sun… everything.”
“Sir,” Odin said, turning his attention to the man smoking beside him. “Are you sure nothing’s wrong?”
“Quite the contrary, Odin. Everything’s fine. It’s been that way since you left for the island.”
“I don’t understand. What are you trying to tell me?”
“Do you remember that talk we had before we docked at Fisherman’s Point? I know it’s been more than a year ago and that you might not remember it, but when you found me that morning, Odin, you found me in one of the greatest moments of weakness I’ve ever had. Honestly… just between the two of us… I didn’t know what to do. I don’t
even remember half of what I said to you. All I know is that everything was just coming down at me at once. Domnin was upset because I wasn’t acknowledging him outside the bedroom, I was hurt because I hurt him, I was worried about the crew and what they would think if they found out… I was worried about everything, even though I should’ve only been worried about one person and one person only.”
“Domnin,” Odin nodded.
“Yes—Domnin, the man I’ve been sleeping with for the past five years of life, the man I’ve told my darkest secrets, my deepest regrets. I’ve told him everything, yet I couldn’t even acknowledge what he meant to me. How pathetic is that?”
“You were afraid, sir—you can’t blame yourself.”
“I can’t blame anyone but myself, Odin. You know why? Because no one’s ever told me what to be afraid of and no one ever will. I can’t tell you to be afraid of me just becdause I want you to be, or to be afraid of the sea just because I think you should be damn well scared of it. Only you can tell yourself what you are afraid of. It turns out that I was afraid of what others would think even though I shouldn’t’ve been all along. Do you see what I’m getting at?”
“Yes sir.”
“The whole point of this, Odin, is that you’ve changed my life in a way that no one else ever has. You—a boy who came from the mainland with the dream of becoming a knight—changed a man who never thought he could change. That’s a pretty amazing accomplishment.”
“I only told you what I thought was right.”
“And it turns out it was,” Jerdai said, pushing himself to his feet. “I’ve never said this to anyone before, Odin, but it’s true when they say that someone can help you see something in an entirely different light. I’m going to tell you something now, and I want you to remember it just like I remembered what you told me. Are you listening?”
“Yes.”
“Promise me you’ll remember.”
“I promise.”
“Dammit boy! Promise me!”
“I promise sir.”
“I don’t care what anyone ever thinks, says or tells you—you can change whoever and whatever you want. Take it from a man who thought he’d never change, much less because a boy told him to. You have the power to change the world, Odin. If you’ve made me see a light I thought I’d never see… think of what you can do for all of us.”
Physical burdens continued to remind him that things would not be the same for long.
Seated in a chair no more than a foot away from his knight master’s bed, Odin watched Miko’s chest rise and fall in slow, even succession. Blanketed by the bedcurtains that dangled from the ceiling, little could be seen of the Elf’s face, but what could displayed enough to assure anyone looking upon him that all was well.
He’s been asleep all night, Odin thought, rubbing his arms. He hasn’t woken up once.
Could it mean anything? Just because Miko hadn’t woken up didn’t necessarily mean he was hurt worse than he appeared—he could just be sleeping, channeling his conscience in another direction in order to keep the pain away. Why endure agony when you could go elsewhere, where pain didn’t exist and shallow thoughts only existed with a lover’s kiss?
But what if he’s…
He swallowed a lump in his throat.
No matter what his conscience told him otherwise, he refused to believe that Miko had fallen into a lapse of time. Intentional or not, he couldn’t afford to lose his concept of reality—not now, not when he was hurt.
Taking a deep breath, he spun and moved the chair closer to the bed and threw a glance over his shoulder. When he found neither Parfour nor Nova in the room with him, he parted the bedcurtains, sighing when the entirety of the Elf’s body came into view.
“Sir,” Odin whispered. “Can you hear me?”
The Elf’s breathing paused.
Odin’s heart stopped.
A short moment later, Miko’s chest fell and a breath of air passed from between his lips.
“I’m sorry, sir—I… I know you can’t hear me, and I know that even if you can, you probably won’t remember or know what I say, but I can’t keep it to myself anymore. It’s bad enough knowing that you were hurt because of me. I can’t stand not knowing whether or not you’re all right. Nova says it’s not my fault because you wouldn’t have let me stay behind anytway, but I can’t help it. It’s… I…”
Tears crested the surface of his eyes. He blinked in the hopes that they would clear—or, hopefully, even disappear completely—but the action did no more than break the veil that kept them in. Bursting from the dam in which they were held, they exploded over the broken remnants of his eyelids and cascaded down his lashes, creating beautiful waterfalls in the wake of unintentional suffering and forming rivers across his face.
No matter how beautiful the display, no matter how ironic the situation, nothing could amount to the pain he felt at that very moment.
His hand throbbed.
He curled his fist.
A searing pain laced down his arm and into his palm.
When he looked down, the pristine, virgin bandage suffered the curse of blood, scarleting the pure and defying all that seemed innocent.
You’re becoming him, the gilded thing whispered.
“I’m becoming you,” Odin said, closing his eyes. “Your blood is mine, sir.”
Bowing his head, Odin let out a long, low wail.
Was it true?
Did it mean nothing when all seemed well?
Nova and Parfour returned a while later. Dressed in casual clothes and smelling of food, they entered the room with smiles on their faces, speaking in hushed tones so they wouldn’t wake anyone who might be sleeping. Odin, who lay stomach-down on his bed, barely moved as they entered, not wanting to disrupt the lighthearted moment his friends shared.
You know they’re here for you, he thought, rolling on his side. It’s not like they’d care.
“Odin?” Parfour whispered.
Odin didn’t reply.
“Are you awake?” the boy continued, setting a hand on his shoulder.
The way his muscle tensed did little to conceal his current state of consciousness. “I’m awake,” he said, rolling onto his back and setting an arm over his forehead. “Hey guys.”
“You ok?” Nova frowned.
“I’m fine,” Odin smiled. “Where were you?”
“Eating. Why?”
“I woke up earlier and neither of you were here.”
“Oh,” the older man frowned, settling down at the end of the bed. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine.” Odin pushed himself up. He turned his attention to Parfour. “You ok?”
“I’m ok,” the boy smiled, brushing his bangs out of his eyes.
“Looks like someone needs a haircut.”
“Maybe a little bit.”
Chuckling, Odin threw his legs over the side of the bed and rubbed his eyes. Not sure if he’d actually fallen asleep after checking on Miko, he took a moment to contemplate his current state of mind before rising and crossing the room.
“Is he ok?” Nova asked, setting a hand on his shoulder.
“I think so,” Odin nodded, reaching down to set his hand over the Elf’s. “He hasn’t woken up.”
“It’s better he sleeps anyway.”
“I know.”
“Don’t worry, Odin—he’ll get up eventually. Something like this isn’t going to keep him down for long.”
Hopefully not.
The idea of the blade having been laced with poison was never far from his mind. Though he’d never found any power, liquid or residue while cleaning the Elf’s wound, that ddn’t mean there hadn’t been any present. With no knowledge of poison, how to make it or what it looked like, he could’ve easily missed something without knowing it.
I should’ve had the healer clean the wound for me.
Nothing could be done about it now. His one mistake could cost the Elf his life.
“What happens if he dies?” Odin asked, look
ing over his shoulder at Nova.
“He won’t.”
“What if he does though?”
“He’s not going to die, Odin. Besides—what makes you think he will anyway?”
“I don’t know if there was any poison on the blade.”
“No one does.”
“I should.”
“What are you—”
“I cleaned his wound, Nova.” The silence that followed forced tremors in Odin’s heart. “If he dies,” he continued, tightening his grip on the Elf’s hand, “it’ll be my fault, because I was too stupid to look for anything.”
“You can’t blame yourself.”
“I’m becoming a knight, Nova! How can I not blame myself?”
“You were worried,” Parfour murmured.
Both Odin and nova looked up.
“You can’t blame yourself for being worried,” the boy said, taking a few steps forward. “You wanted to make sure he was all right, so you brought him down here and did what you were supposed to.”
“Parfour,” Odin began. “That’s not the point. I’m becoming a knight. I’m supposed to know these things.”
“Who said?”
“I—”
“The kid has a point,” Nova said. “Miko never taught you anything about poison.”
