by Kody Boye
“His room is this way,” Jordan said.
“I haven’t been here in so long,” Odin said, awing over the locations around him. “Sir… do I need to worry about running into anyone? I mean, like—”
“Mister Monvich?”
Odin blinked. How long had it been since he’d thought of that name?
Far too long, he thought, only mustering up the urge to speak when Jordan smirked and cleared all unease from the air. “Sir?”
“You do remember Herald, right?”
“Well, yes. I do.”
“Are you worried about running into him?”
“No.”
“Then why ask the question?”
“I’m… not sure. I… I guess I’m just nervous.”
“Nervous or not, you have nothing to worry about. You’re almost an adult, Odin—you’ll learn to find your place in the world sooner rather than later.”
“Yes sir.”
When the end of the corridor came into sight and it seemed they could continue no further, Jordan halted their advance and motioned to the door in front of them. “This is where your master is saying,” he said. “I want you to know something before you enter this room, though, just to make sure you’ve heard it from an outside source.”
“Yes sir.”
“As he’s said, don’t let his behavior frighten you. He means you no harm.”
“I understand.”
“He’s told me to tell you that if he does something that makes you uncomfortable to tell him about it. He hasn’t been around humans for some time.”
“Where did he come from?” Odin asked. “I know it’s impolite to ask, but he… he said he was a wanderer.”
“Which is exactly what he told me,” Jordan said. “He’s also requested I tell you to ask questions, even if you think they seem impolite.”
“I don’t want to offend him.”
“No, but it will offend him even more if he finds you’re withholding something.”
“Can he—”
Is that even appropriate to ask?
To think that the Elf could see into the thoughts and feelings of the people around him was not that big of stretch. It was told, in legend, that Elves possessed uncanny powers of the mind, heart and soul, and knew of things from the earliest memories of childhood that even the oldest of human men did not. To feel awkward seemed unnecessary, for he had nothing to hide and even more to give, but to know that something or someone could just read his thoughts at any time wasn’t exactly the most comfortable feeling.
“Can he… what?” Jordan asked.
“Never mind,” Odin said. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Go on in,” the weapons master said. “He’s waiting for you.”
“Thank you for bringing me, sir.”
“Not a problem.”
Odin bowed his head. Thankfully, his smile was hidden from sight when Jordan reached out to clap his shoulder, as it gave too much of his own personal thoughts away, but he was able to watch the man walk off until he turned down the hall and disappeared from sight.
All right, he thought, looking up at the door. Here goes nothing.
Raising his hand, he knocked on the door with his knuckles and hoped that he hadn’t made too much noise.
Does it bother them to hear such loud noises?
Before he could entertain the thought, a voice spoke to him from the other side of the doorway. “Come in,” it said.
After taking a deep breath, Odin grasped the doorknob and pushed the door open.
Miko rose from his place on the floor to greet him with a single nod.
“Hello sir,” Odin said, making sure the door had shut behind him before turning to face the Elf.
“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Odin.”
Miko offered his hand palm up. Like before, Odin set his hand atop his newly-acquainted knight master’s palm. It took but a moment for him to realize how gargantuan this creature was, as the entirety of his hand just barely fit in Miko’s palm.
“This is the traditional greeting amongst Elves,” the Elf explained, drawing Odin from his spell of thought. “The males of our society greet one another by touching palms.”
Unsure of what to do or say, Odin merely kept his palm in place.
“The females,” Miko continued, “Are greeted with a bow of the head, as it’s considered inappropriate to touch another female unless she gives you permission.”
Odin said nothing.
“Do you understand?”
“Yes sir,” Odin said. “I’m sorry for being disrespectful. I just don’t know what to say.”
“You’re not being disrespectful, Odin. Please don’t think that.”
Miko broke the greeting touch and gestured him to sit near the table. Odin settled himself into the plush seat. Miko, meanwhile, remained standing.
“Aren’t you going to sit?” Odin frowned, then added, “Sir?”
He’d have to remember to address this creature properly. He didn’t want to be disrespectful—like earlier, when he’d said nothing after such an eloquently-worded response.
“The chairs are too small,” Miko smiled. “I’m quite all right. If I feel the need to sit, I’ll use the bed or the floor.”
Odin allowed his eyes to wander the room—where, against the wall, two beds stood, one of which had been stripped of its bedding and now lay on the floor directly beneath the window.
“You’re too big,” Odin said, almost without thinking how his words would sound.
“Sadly, yes. It’s not easy to make a bed that will support my height.”
“I’ll sleep on the floor too.”
“There’s no need for that.”
“I’ll sleep where you sleep.”
“While I appreciate your kindness, I’d much prefer if you slept on the bed. I’d rest easier knowing you were comfortable. You’re still sick, remember?”
“Yes sir. I do.”
In the moments of silence that followed, the Elf continued to watch him with his same unblinking stare, almost as if he were examining him for every flaw that could be struck across his appearance. Odin wanted to turn away, just so he wouldn’t have to face the Elf’s eyes, but gradually found that, were he to commit such an action, he might offend the creature that had come to his aid.
He’s not a creature, he thought, now staring at the Elf in turn. He’s… just not human. That’s all.
It would take quite some time for him to grow used to the feeling of being inferior to the fine specimen before him. It would, however, not hinder his attempts any, as it seemed in that moment that there was little, if any tension between them.
“Don’t be nervous,” Miko said, drawing Odin from his thoughts.
“Can you… um… read my thoughts?”
“I would never invade your personal privacy. But to answer your question, yes—I can read thoughts, but I’ll let you know here and now that I will never under any circumstance invade the depths of your mind.”
“All right,” Odin said, reaching back to rub his neck. “If you didn’t read my thoughts though, how did you nerve I was nervous?”
“You have a tendency to shift your eyes away from the thing that’s making you nervous. Your breathing becomes uneven. Your foot occasionally taps on the floor. Also—you tap your fingers on your thigh or the table, your most noticeable habit.”
Odin immediately stopped feeding the gestures that he’d just been called out on. “I’m sorry,” he sighed. “I thought I was being polite, but I—”
Do you really believe he cares?
Did he? The Elf had to know he was ignorant—had, without a doubt, to understand that he was merely a mortal who knew nothing of higher behavior, intelligence or what it could mean. For that it seemed he had no worry, as the Elf would surely understand his predicament, but he couldn’t help but wonder if the constant fear in his heart was warranted or not.
“You’re learning,” the Elf said, lips curling into a smile.
> “I’m trying to do this right.”
“You’re doing just fine, Odin. To be quite honest, I thought you wouldn’t be this open.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” The Elf turned his attention to the door. “Someone’s coming.”
“Can you hear them?”
“Their footsteps. Tell me, Odin—have you ever dropped a sewing needle?”
“No.”
“Have you ever heard the sound of one being dropped?”
“Not particularly.”
“All right.” The Elf closed his eyes and pursed his lips. “Surely you’ve heard the sound of a drop of water falling into a pool.”
“I have.”
“What does it sound like?”
“Like a… well… pop.” He tapped his finger on the table very lightly for emphasis.
“Yes. It sounds like the snap of something, yet it’s very quiet, almost indiscernible. That’s what these footsteps sound like.”
A knock came at the door. “I’ve brought dinner!” a boy called.
“Does that hurt your ears?” Odin asked.
“No. Why do you think it would?”
“I thought that, since Elves had better hearing than humans, loud noises would bother them.”
“No. They don’t. There are certain filters that protect us.” The Elf rose. “Please, get the food, if you will.”
Before Odin could begin to rise and make his way to the door, Miko stepped through a threshold to the side of the room—where, Odin assumed, a bathing chamber lay, nondescript and out of the way.
Stepping forward, he opened the door and nodded at the page, who carried a large platter of food that was balanced on a pair of trembling arms. It was any wonder that he hadn’t dropped it on his way. “Thank you,” Odin said, accepting the offering.
The boy nodded before walking off.
“I’d prefer my presence not known while I’m here,” Miko said after Odin closed the door. He stepped back into the room a moment later.
“What would they do if they saw you, sir?”
“They would act like your father did, but worse.”
“Why?”
Odin set the food on the table. The Elf took a small piece of meat between two fingernails and lifted it to his lips. He chewed, then swallowed before returning his attention to Odin. “The food’s quite good,” he smiled, “but to answer your question: they would most likely throw me out of the castle.”
“How did you get in then?”
“I was garbed in my cloak. I asked for permission to enter the Outer District, but was denied access unless I revealed who I was. The guards forced me to disrobe before them and reveal my person.”
“What did they do?”
“Stared, mostly, then asked what I was.”
“They didn’t mind your appearance?”
“I wouldn’t say they cared so much as they were ‘unsure.’ Despite my appearance, they treated me quite well, and delivered my belongings to the room just as I requested, including my sword.”
Odin’s eyes trailed to the far corner of the room—where, leaning against the wall was not only the blade that had been gifted to him, but a curved, pure-silver masterpiece of weaponry that glistened in the faint evening light. “It’s beautiful,” he said.
“It was given to me by the queen of the Elves some time ago,” Miko agreed, turning his attention back to the platter of food, which remained almost untouched. “Eat.”
“How do you want me to split this up?”
“There’s no need for that.”
“You must be hungry after coming all this way?”
“The Elves don’t need to eat much. Had I been born a pure, white-blooded Elf, I wouldn’t be eating meat.”
“They don’t eat meat.”
“No,” Miko said. “I’ll answer this one last question, then ask you to remain silent until you’ve eaten your dinner.” He waited for Odin to say something in response. When Odin didn’t, Miko continued, saying, “Pure Elves feel as though we as a higher, intelligent species should not sacrifice animals just so that we can eat them. We are the ones that were chosen by the Great Mother Gaia to walk the earth upon two legs, to use both of our arms, to build tools with brains. Such is the reason why meat is abominable—it is an unwilling sacrifice from one creature to nourish another.
“You see, Elves gain the nutrients they need would need from meat through the sun, much like a plant would when exposed to the open air, unlike other creatures who must kill to gain said nourishment. Such measures are not true for all Elvenkind, though. Since I am half Draethel, I need to eat meat in order to get the nutrients I need. Normal, pure-blooded Elves, as I said, have no reason to devour flesh.”
Odin nodded. “Thank you for answering my question.”
“You’re quite welcome. Now, eat as much as you like. I’ll eat whatever you don’t.”
Given permission to eat, Odin dug in, maneuvering his hands through the meat, vegetables, and the few biscuits and shoveling food into his mouth as though he had never eaten before. Warm, succulent, as though it were personally made for him by the grandest chef in the castle—never in the past two years had he eaten such fine food, so to do so was an honor unlike he could have ever possibly imagined. Despite his luxury in gluttony, though, he did take note of how much he was eating, as he didn’t want to act the pig and eat all of one particular thing while depriving his newly-acquainted knight master the variety that lay before them.
He must have to eat a lot to keep him going, he thought, eyes wandering from his food and then to the Elf’s awesome frame—from his broad, gargantuan shoulders down to his near-impossible waistline.
He knew for a fact that if he were as big as the Elf, he would need a good amount to keep him going.
“Are you all right?” the Elf asked.
“Yes sir,” Odin said. “I’m fine.”
“All right. I was just making sure.”
He knew I was staring at him.
While he’d become more accustomed to the Elf’s presence since he’d entered the room, not a single part about him could deny how awe-inspiring or at least mystifying Miko was. His hair: purple, braided near the sides of his face; his eyes: dark, equally-enrapturing and set perfectly within their hollows; his muscles: flexing with each and every breath—this creature, though flawed, could have been the most perfect thing he had ever seen, yet he was unable to distract himself from the form before him. The only reason Odin was finally able to pull his gaze from the Elf was because a sliver of meat sauce slid down from his lip and onto his chin, pulling him from thought.
“I’m finished,” Odin said, bowing his head to the food, then rising when he felt as though he could eat no more.
“Thank you, Odin.”
Before Odin could take his eating utensils to the door, Miko caught his wrist. “May I borrow your fork and knife?” he asked.
“But I’ve already used them,” Odin said.
“That’s fine. I don’t mind sharing.”
“But what about—”
Miko shook his head. Using his free hand, he gently uncurled Odin’s fingers, careful as to not to cut his skin with his fingernails, then lifted them to his lips. He expelled from his throat as if he were a mystical dragon a plume of red mist, which sparkled in the air as if it were some great dust before eventually drifting to the floor and disappearing entirely.
“What did you do?” Odin asked, unable to resist the urge to reach up and rub his itching nose.
“I killed anything that might be on it,” Miko said, relieving Odin of his eating utensils. “You are aware that there are tiny life forms living on each and every surface, no?”
“There are?”
“Yes. They’re hard to see unless you use magic or have a looking glass which can magnify their appearance, but they’re there. These little creatures are the very things that keep the world in order.”
“I didn’t know,” Odin sighed.
“Please don’t
let what I said upset you.”
“It doesn’t,” Odin said. “It’s just… I don’t think I know as much as some of the others do.”
“You think you’re not as intelligent as the other squires?”
“Yes.”
Miko set a hand on Odin’s shoulder. “Don’t,” the Elf said. “You have nothing to worry about. As your guardian, I will teach you the things you need to know, and maybe more. Please don’t believe you’re lesser than someone else, because you’re not. Everyone learns at a different pace.”
Odin nodded.
“Go lie down,” the Elf said. “I plan on retiring for the night once I finish eating. I suggest you do as well.”
When Miko thrust the fork into a piece of meat, Odin made his way over to his bed. There, he unbuttoned his jerkin, let it hang loose on his chest, then took his boots off before sliding his belt out of the loops in his pants. “I’ll try not to fall asleep,” he said.
“If you do, that’s fine. I’ll say goodnight now, just in case you do.”
“Yes sir,” Odin said. “Goodnight.”
The last thing he saw before he fell asleep was the Elf sliding a biscuit into his perfect mouth.
He woke coughing in the middle of the night, and while he tried his hardest to keep quiet, he couldn’t. It wasn’t until the Elf began to rise from his place on the floor that Odin’s worst fear happened—that blood, the sick color of black, spilled into his outstretched hands.
“It’s all right,” Miko said, helping Odin out of the bed. “There’s a bucket right here.”
Odin had just taken hold of the bucket when another bout of coughs took over. Unlike the first unexpected expulsion, blood didn’t shoot out, but instead trickled from his partially-closed lips, as if he were a babe drooling after being freshly fed.
“There,” the Elf said, rubbing his back in small, circular motions. “Does that help?”
“Yuh-Yes,” Odin managed, spitting a mouthful of blood out. “Thu-Thank yuh-you.”
Miko continued to kneel by his side, rubbing his back and humming in low tunes, until the coughing spell ended. Once sure it was completely over, he gestured Odin up, stood, then took the bucket and set it near the door before settling Odin into one of the tableside chairs.
