by Kody Boye
In the end, it seemed to make perfect sense—that immortality, as sought-after by man as it happened to be, was not all it was made out to be.
“Sir,” Odin said, unsure what to say, as his heart beat so fast it seemed ready to explode. “I—”
“You might never die because you’re half Elf, Odin. Have you ever considered that?”
“No.”
“Some Elves befriend races who die in what we see as a short amount of time. Because of that reason, because of that fault, we live with the pain of knowing that, one day, those they love so dearly will one day die.”
“Have you had friends like that?”
“Until now I’ve only briefly associated myself with humans or other lesser mortal creatures, mostly because I did not want to grow too attached and therefor create a bond that could be broken. I took a chance on you, because I believed you were important, and I’m taking an even bigger chance on Nova.”
“Because he can die.”
“All living things are capable of dying. The flesh is weak. It can be bent, distorted, pulled from the body and formed into whatever shape one desires—we are all matter, a thing that can be destroyed, and we are not without form for a reason. Some die from sickness, others war. Most, however, die from age, leading happy lives until the very day they pass—when, for some reason, that invisible hourglass in the sky runs out. Elves, though… there is no proof that we can die from the pass of time because there has never once been an Elf whose life has been cut short from eternity by some natural source of the body.”
“You feel burdened,” Odin said.
“Yes. I do.”
Odin draped an arm across Miko’s lower back.
“Can I confide in you as my squire and friend?” the Elf asked.
“You know you can.”
“Sometimes,” Miko began, “I think of the thing Elves do when their pain is too much to bear. Do you know what that thing is, Odin?”
“I could… I could guess.”
“Do you want to?”
“Not… really.”
“Elves have a ceremonious way of ending their lives should the pain of an eternal existence begin to swallow them. It involves cutting our arms open from the wrists to the elbows, then letting ourselves bleed out. We do this in the kind of privacy you can only find in nature, far away from any living thing. Our forest, Odin—Abroen, home of the Elves—is blessed in human eyes, but cursed through an Elf’s. Do you know why this is?”
Odin shook his head.
“It is because it is said that each tree in the forest has tasted the blood of an immortal,” the Elf said, voice taught, strung like a harp, trembling as though played by false fingers on the faintest hands of a man who, frail in his old age, has been forced to play for Death. “Because for each tree that exists in that forest, an Elf has taken his or her life.”
“So that whole forest—”
“Yes, Odin—that whole forest exists to this day because an Elf has let another living thing taste its blood. Do you know what happens when another living creature drinks an Elf’s blood, Odin? Do you know that, should a man, beast or plant ever press its lips to a fair one’s open wrists, that thing will forever be immortal?”
“Nuh-No…. I don’t.”
He could not control the shakes that wracked his body, the pains that trembled within his arms or the throbs of unease that blanketed the hidden corners of his mind. The horrors that the Elf experienced destroyed his whole idea of happiness, of things grand, pure, eloquent and refined. Images flashed through his mind of torture. Insects, abrasions, yellow eyes, dark concepts, the shivers that ran down one’s spine when they closed their eyes to look into what should have been the most comforting of darkness only to find the yellow eyes looking back at them—how could something so grand, so beautiful, so unreal, feel so much pain?
“Do not fear for me,” Miko whispered.
“I can’t help it,” Odin replied. “I don’t know how you go on living like you do.”
“Neither do I,” the Elf said. “Sometimes… neither do I.”
Little consoled him following the episode. He fell asleep, his heart torn to pieces, and when nightmares of beautiful creatures of love and earth destroying themselves took hold of his mind, he woke just as he had when he’d fallen asleep. Several times, he had to force himself out of bed, for each time he closed his eyes he heard Miko’s words in his mind.
Sometimes, I think of the thing Elves do when their pain is too much to bear.
How could anyone live with the thought of doing such a thing, much less the actual desire or inclination to carry the act out? For someone who seemed to have so much when, in reality, he possessed so little, it seemed impossible, blindingly unimaginable that the Elf would want to commit an act so painstaking as cutting one’s arms open and waiting until you bled dry. How could anyone live the final moments of their life in such unbearable pain and agony?
It is because it is said that each tree in that forest has tasted the blood of an immortal… because for each tree that exists in that forest, an Elf has taken his or her life.
So, it was true—every beautiful thing was and is born of sorrow. A rose, its crimson petals and drops of dew, bears thorns because the other flowers have pushed it away, while an oyster, who believes itself ugly and nothing should be beautiful, hides within its lips a pearl, alabaster beauty in the form of a sphere, the princess locked in her tower. Both items bear sorrow, whether clearly evident or not, and both display a meaning that everyone could see, but few ever bothered to realize. A bird could fly, a child could die, tears could be shed and the whole world could be torn asunder, yet when dangled before one’s eyes a person would never truly see their purpose unless they were specifically instructed of its merits.
“He needs me,” Odin whispered. “I can’t let him live like this.”
What compassionate, willing human being could turn one’s head aside when one cried—when, slowly, and before their eyes, a person or creature was dying? Men can be ignorant, yes, and they can be foolhardy and justified, but not once would they ever turn their back upon another suffering being without feeling in their heart a shred of remorse for the very act they had just committed.
Before he returned to bed, he kneeled before his knight master’s side and squeezed his shoulder.
In two years, he would become a knight, and if in those two years Miko had not succumbed to himself, he would ask the Elf to stay with him—until, at the very least, something came to mind: a purpose that would fulfill his life and keep him rooted to the very existence he was so blessed to have.
Odin wouldn’t let his friend suffer. If he did, he knew he would suffer a fate far worse than death.
“Wake up, Odin! Come on! Wake up!”
“Quit shaking me!” Odin cried, throwing Nova’s arms away from his shoulders. “Where are we?”
“We’re here!” Nova laughed. “We’re here!”
“Where’s here?”
“Hell if I know, but that doesn’t matter because we’re here!”
Before Odin could even begin to question where they could possibly be, Nova pulled him out of bed and began to throw layers of long-sleeved clothes at him. With little choice other than to assemble himself as fast as he could, Odin pulled a pair of long, insulated pants up his legs, then pushed himself into his hood, all the while trying desperately not to stare at the window which remained clouded over with ice. “You don’t know where we are?” he asked.
“No, but Miko said we’re here.”
“Have you seen it?”
“No.”
“Then why are you down here yelling at me?”
Nova didn’t say anything at first. When Odin smiled, however, the man’s lip curled into a smirk, the one corner of his mustache tilting as if he’d just arched an eyebrow. “Miko said to come get you up and dressed.”
“All right.”
After securing his coat into place, Odin pulled his hood over his head and clasped th
e mouthpiece together. Nova, impatient as ever, began to tap his foot.
“Can you quit?” Odin laughed, pulling gloves onto his hands. “You’re making me nervous.”
“I want to see where we’re at.”
“You can go up without me.”
“He told me to wait for you.”
Shrugging, Odin reached down, pulled another pair of socks onto his ankles, then pushed his feet into his boots. He took several moments to make sure the laces were properly secured before rising.
“Ready?” Nova smiled.
“Yeah,” Odin grunted. “I am.”
The two left the room and made their way through the halls. Cold air met them more than halfway to the stairs—a sign that, while ominous, led Odin to believe that their location had to be much more remote than he had anticipated.
“Brr,” Nova shivered, rubbing his hands together. “Guess it’s colder than I expected.”
The cold only continued to worsen until they stopped at the foot of the stairs. There, the chill seemed to taunt them with its presence alone, slicking white wisps of snow across the stairs and staining their breaths a pale gray.
“How cold do you think it is up there?” Odin asked.
“Don’t know,” Nova said, “and don’t care just as long as we’re where we’re supposed to be.”
Odin didn’t linger on Nova’s words. He took his first step up the stairs.
Coming out into the cold, Odin grimaced and tightened his hold on the hood over his head. The spectacle of sailors dressed in their heaviest winter clothing surprised, but didn’t dissuade him from moving any further. He turned and gestured Nova up with a simple wave of his hand.
“What’re they looking at?” Nova asked, grunting when he left the final step.
“I don’t know,” Odin said. “Let’s look.”
After crossing the deck and nearly slipping several times in the process, the two slid between a few men.
Before them lay a sight neither of them would ever forget.
Extending far into the distance like a grand, hellish plain, a barren land of snow and ice assaulted his eyes with a stupendous, desolate vision. Of snowdrifts so high they resembled hills, of solid ice the color of bright blue crystal revealed to the world by wind, of an existence so bleak and horrible it seemed not a single breathing creature could live here—in appearance alone it looked like a place of childhood dreams, of fun in the snow and of snowmen that could be built as high as the eye could see. This, however, was no wonderland, and it became apparent just by standing there and looking upon its surfaces that this place was not in the least bit forgiving.
This place—this winter wonderland—was hell.
“Where are we?” Odin asked.
“Neline,” Miko said, stepping forward. “This is where we’re going, Odin, Nova. This is where we’ll spend the next year.”
Part 6
1
“Spend the next year?” Nova cried. “Are you crazy?”
“Nova,” Odin mumbled.
“Shut up, kid.” The man returned his eyes to the Elf, flames across their amber surfaces. “What do you plan on doing? Making us walk across that?”
“The Globe Village lies far beyond the shores of Neline. It will only take us a few days to walk there.”
“A few days? How do you expect us to live out there? We’ll freeze to death!”
“I am not stupid, Nova. I know where we are going.”
“Tell me how we’re going to survive out there then!”
“I will make shelters carved out of snow with my magic, then chill them with water to retain their shape. Then, once the three of us are safely inside, I will seal the entrance off in the same manner I created the shelter. I’ll keep us warm with a magical fire.”
“Which won’t melt the structure?” Odin asked.
“No, it won’t. I’ll be able to keep the three of us alive until we reach the village.”
“Why do people live out there anyway?” Nova asked, gesturing wildly to the frozen-over windows. “What drove them to?”
“Neline was not always like this. It was once a grand land filled with the greenest grasses and the tallest trees.”
“Why is it like this now then?”
“Some say they angered Kiava.”
“Kiava?” Odin frowned. “A God?”
“In legend, Kiava was a prince of the great capital of Yolanda who cast himself from the cliffs because his father disapproved of his partnership with another man. The young man’s sorrow transcended death and destroyed everything—from the king’s castles, the wide, open plains, to the magical land which he ruled over.”
“How did the Globe Village survive then?”
“Kiava spared the village his lover lived in. That short lapse of time allowed mages to create a magical structure that prevents the village from reaching freezing temperatures.”
With his questions answered but his doubts more than obvious, Odin looked down at their belongings. Three in all, their packs, arranged into sacks that would be slung over their shoulders, lay on the floor near the door, their presence alone enough to beckon them off to their adventure.
“I guess we’re really doing this then,” Nova said, looking back at the window. “Right?”
Miko nodded. “Yes, Nova,” he said. “We really are.”
“When do you expect me back?” Jerdai asked, leaning against the wall and lighting his pipe.
“In a year’s time,” Miko said. “Either myself or Odin will send a message to your mages.”
Odin glanced at Domnin and Icklard, who stood off to the side watching him with sad, uneasy eyes.
I won’t see them for a good while, he thought, sighing.
Out of everything he had been through, he was surprised by how much it hurt to think that he would not be seeing the brothers for over a year. What would they be doing at the Globe Village that whole time? Was there work to be done, lessons to be learned, men to be slain, challenges to possibly be conquered? Just why, exactly, would they go to such a remote location?
“All right,” Jerdai said. He pushed away from the wall, walked to his desk, and opened a drawer. There, he pulled a piece of parchment free from its confines, undid the ribbon that bound it together, then rolled it out. He wrote a note and a long series of numbers—likely, Odin realized, the geometric locations of their position that had to have been measured by some scaling device—before rolling it back up and returning it to its place. “Do I need to take care of anything for the three of you while you’re gone?”
“No.” Miko shook his head. “I left a down deposit on our mounts in Elna, so the bartender and his bar boys will be taking care of the horses until they are to be returned to their rightful positions—the mare to Felnon, with Ectris Karussa, and the two stallions to Ornala. There’s nothing you need to take care of. Right, Odin, Nova?”
“Right,” Nova said.
Odin nodded, but said nothing.
“All right. It was good doing business with the three of you.”
The captain stepped forward, gripped Nova’s hand, then shook Miko’s. Jerdai took special care in setting a hand on Odin’s shoulder, as well as maintaining a grip on his hand. “Good luck on your adventures, son. I know you’ll do great.”
“Thank you, sir.” Odin turned to look at the mages, then back at the other men. “Can I have a moment with them?”
“Of course,” Miko said.
After the Elf, Nova and Jerdai left the office, Odin closed the door behind them and turned to face his friends.
“Guess we won’t be seeing you for a good while,” Domnin said.
“No,” Odin sighed, shaking his head. “I’ll miss you two.”
“We’ll miss you too,” Icklard said. “Don’t worry though—just because we’re far away doesn’t mean we can’t talk to each other.”
“My brother’s right,” Domnin nodded. “If you need to talk, or just want to say hello or something, send us a message. One of us won’t t
ouch the bird without the other.”
“Right.”
Odin stepped forward. He gripped Icklard’s hand, then found himself hugging the brother. Soon after, Domnin brought him into his arms.
“Good luck,” the taller brother said, patting Odin’s lower back. In a lower voice, he then added, “Don’t worry about anything, Odin. Your time will come.”
He backed away from Domnin with uncertainty. Though the mage seemed to understand something he didn’t, Domnin smiled, immediately easing a bit of his worry.
“Good luck,” Icklard said. “We’ll miss you.”
Before Odin turned and opened the door, he smiled and waved at the two men he thought he would never make friends with.
“Stand back,” Jerdai said.
In their winter coats—all except Miko, who remained in his dark visage—Odin and Nova watched a group of a half-dozen men mess with the ramp that had not been lowered for some weeks on end. They undid ropes, pulled long bars to the side, then began to slowly ease the contraption down, where it slammed into the ice with a brutal, whiplashing bang that echoed across the distance and reverberated back at them even though no obvious mountains lay in the near distance.
What could it mean? Odin thought, staring off into the horizon.
“Be careful on your way down,” one man said, reaching up to brush snow off the end of his nose. “It might be slick.”
“Thank you,” Odin said.
The man smiled, then backed away. They turned to face Jerdai once more.
“If you need me to return sooner for whatever reason,” the captain said, breaking away from the crowd and exhaling a fine stream of smoke, “please don’t hesitate to send a message to my mages.”
“We won’t,” Miko said. “I don’t believe you’ll need to return soon, captain.”
“I’m just saying—if something goes wrong out in that hellish tundra or at that village, I’ll come back.”
“Thank you, Jerdai.”
