***
And so, day after day of learning passed. Winter was just starting to rear its ugly head, its icy breath beginning to seep into the roots and trees. Even the buildings seemed greyer than usual. To anyone with a lick of common sense, this depression the world was starting to feel was not the end of anything at all, and certainly nothing to concern oneself over. It was less an expression of death and more like a temporary nap: nature would awake more refreshed than ever. To some, such as a storyteller, musing about the seasons and their significance, the snow that was to come could even be seen as a blanket, pure and white, whispering the land to sleep with reminders that all people are actually the same when under snow. Well, Glint thought to himself, those people had better keep away from me. He shuddered. I hate winter.
He was sitting in the study, lazing around with a book that Azrael had presented him with one day. Glint pretended to understand the words inscribed onto its cracked yellowish pages. Azrael was, Glint found out, an absolutely horrible teacher. The man was simply a natural born genius. He could do almost anything better than most people, and what he couldn’t do, he picked up soon enough. Now, as most seventeen year olds knew, the world wasn’t made of identical people. Each person had his own abilities and weaknesses. Some were talented while others, sadly, were not. It was very rare indeed, as any person would admit, to find someone who was in the capacity to do everything perfectly after a few tries. The most basic example of that breed was Azrael’s transformation after being in his position for a few days.
When Azrael first started as a sort of Administrator Teacher Butler (or ATB, for short), he was excellent at accounting as well as managing others, but knew little more than that. These days Glint heard stories from the servants about the man becoming an authority on gardening, cooking, as well as herbal medicine lore and carpentry. But that wasn’t what got on Glint’s nerves, no, he thought as he flipped a page furiously. The true horror of Azrael was his modesty. His was a kind soul, and did not possess the mindset of seventeen year olds, rather that of a child much younger. He was a man who believed that all people were born equal, and that anyone could do anything as well as him if they concentrated hard enough and applied themselves to the task. This led to Azrael making unreasonable demands at times, not least of which was teaching Glint the alphabet and then dumping unto his lap the thickest, most complex book to be found. He then had the gall to tut at him when he couldn’t finish the foul thing in a week! Glint grumbled to himself about the best ways to punish people who like to tut as he read the title of the final chapter, Broken Shields and Lost Minds: Life in The Time before Odin Allfather.
At that precise moment, the subject of Glint’s grumbling entered the study in all his smiling glory. Dressed in a butler’s suit with a long tailcoat, his formerly unruly hair now tied into a neat pony tail, he looked every inch the master and not the servant. “Done with the book yet?” he questioned, breaking into a grin.
“Not yet,” came the strained reply, and Glint worked hard not to lash out at the man in frustration. Azrael laughed, then looked at his master’s book, looking a little surprised. “Have you gotten that far?” he said, pointing at the youth’s hands.
“Yeah,” answered Glint, feeling slightly embarrassed. Was he supposed to have finished it? It had been a month already.
“Very good!” exclaimed Azrael with another one of his laughs, this time less condescending, before he sat himself on a brown leather armchair and slumped over the side, feet dangling over one of the arms.
Azrael had a certain way of switching completely between being a charming well mannered aristocrat and a complete slob. It was actually rather fascinating, Glint thought, for it was as if the man had inside him both a noble and a sailor. At times the butler observed even the strictest parts of etiquette, and at others he seemed to ignore the thing altogether.
Azrael was not looking at Glint, but the boy could feel himself being scrutinized nonetheless, as surely as a field mouse running the tall grass beneath an owl’s sky. His harmonious voice rang out then in the eerie quiet. “You haven’t been practicing martial arts this entire month, have you?” it inquired of him.
“No, you forbade it,” he answered
“No qi either?”
“No.”
“Good. And your armour?”
Now Glint was starting to get mad. “Still in the trunk, under the foot of my bed. I think it’ll start to rust soon, you know.”
“Excellent. Go get it.”
“Huh?”
“You heard me.”
Immediately, as if he were pushed from behind, Glint sprang into action, jumping from his perch with the book flying out of his hands. It almost managed a flip before Azrael plucked it out of the air with an amused grunt. “Children!” he exclaimed. The youth ignored him.
Glint raced out of the study, turned left and flew up the staircase three steps at a time. He almost slammed into the wall at the top before bracing himself on it and turning left and up the second half, nearly tripping over his own feet as he reached the chest where his armour slept beneath his bed. His heart skipped a beat because as a warrior, his armour was akin to a piece of his own soul, a shard of his spirit cast into cold steel. If for that reason alone, the safety of one’s armour was paramount, especially while not being worn. That was why Glint kept the key always around his neck, held by a light leather strap that the stable boy, Tim, had given him. He took it out now with shaking hands, for he had not checked on the armour out of fear since the day he put it there. Since the day he killed his band. Azrael hadn’t asked him about the details of that day, although he’d surely heard stories from the servants, and Glint would be damned before he breached the subject. He turned the key with a click, and the chest opened upwards without a creek. The youth peeked inside
There it sat, glowing silver in the sunlight, forgetting the original dark metal it had been forged from as if it had shed its skin. Its plates bathed Glint in reflected light. The youth almost thought someone had replaced the thing, for the armour was so reflective it almost seemed to glow. This was not how he’d left it, the plates had still retained hints of black and many impurities. Now it was almost mirror armour. Inside, on the chest’s bottom, black iron shavings lay discarded, looking forlorn at how the rest of the armour had apparently discarded them.
He gathered the plates in his hands, heart soaring. The reunion filled his head with song, lifting his spirit and causing his fingers to shake with excitement. He went back to the study, stepping down the stairs slowly and carefully now. The browns and cosy decorations of the mansion, the walls and doors, the paintings and graceful cast of the rails, they all seemed to wither into grey. There was nothing quite like his very own armour, thought Glint to himself as he presented the metal to Azrael as a proud mother would her child. Azrael glanced up and looked the youth right in the eye. A second passed, then ten.
“Well?” the ATB exclaimed finally.
“It’s a nice feeling,” admitted Glint with wry smile.
“Not that, Glint! Put it on!”
In the light streaming from the windows arrayed all along the study, it was quite difficult to miss Glint’s blush. “Oh, right,” said he finally. He was so overjoyed to see his armour again that he’d forgotten about putting it on.
Glint arrayed the various pieces of his armour on the floor and looked longingly at the smooth lines of his chest piece. How many times has it saved his heart from being speared right through? At that point, the memories of the last time he had worn it began to slip away from his mind, along with any fears he had that he may once again turn into that kind of monster. No, there was no joy to be found in the haze of murder, and despite the words that he had heard in his camp while younger, the stories Blitz and others like him told around campfires, Glint could not imagine finding that sort of pleasure at any point of his life. What he’d felt was just battle frenzy. His armour was there to help him save his own life, and he was there to take care of it in
turn. Neither existed for destruction. He thought to himself you’re as much a part of me as my own body, and I love you just as much.
Just then, suddenly, something changed.
On the day of his essential success, the steel in Glint’s armour had changed from the dark tint of pig iron armour to an almost silvery sheen as it was struck by blows in battle. Now, his fortress of steel underwent a further transformation, one that was completely unexpected and mortifying. Before his very eyes, it melted into a puddle almost instantaneously, leaving slight ingots of metal in places, as well as all the leather straps used to fasten it together.
Glint sprang forwards towards it with a cry of horror, absolutely certain that somehow, he had managed to mess everything up again. However, as the boy’s hand touched the mess he was certain he had wrought, it stuck to his finger, attached like glue or, indeed, hot molten silver. Yelping, the youth sprang back, pulling a long glimmering trail of the stuff back with him. That strange substance then slipped off his finger and pulled back, plopping back into the puddle, which rippled for an instant before becoming like a calm pool. Pulled back, he thought to himself in fear, rubbing his finger yeah, almost like it was alive. What in the world had just happened? His finger wasn’t even harmed, despite the metal being molten, and he could feel no heat on his skin. Even the floor beneath it, made of wooden polished planks, was fine. Azrael watched the proceedings with what seemed to be silent interest, first adjusting his position on the chair, then leaning forward with a keen look on his dark eyes. “Glint,” he said finally, “step into the puddle!” he said. He ignored Glint’s look and demanded, “Come on!” in a long drawl.
“Are you sure?” asked Glint, apprehensively eyeing the puddle stretched out before him. It almost invited him to go to it, as it continued to shimmer.
“Yes, I am,” answered Azrael, and Glint’s attention snapped back to him almost instantaneously. He wanted to hear the man’s opinion on this, for the last month has proven Azrael competent and loyal. The man had two fingers raised before him. “I have two reasons to advise this,” began Azrael calmly, looking serious before breaking into a childish smile. “The first is that this is interesting to watch.” He laughed for but a moment before his expression turned abruptly earnest. “Secondly,” he continued, looking upwards in thought, his finger touching his chin. His face, pale white, was illuminated in the light of the never-setting sun behind them, “I don’t think your own armour is even capable of causing you harm, no matter what. It has your qi inside of it, and your own qi can only harm you like sore muscles could. Overwork is the only danger really. And,” he added absentmindedly, “If something happens despite this, I will be there to help.”
Glint pondered for a second.
“I guess,” was his only reply, not being able to show complete trust. He’d only known the man for a month, after all. He liked Azrael, but there were also far too many mysteries about the shadowy figure for complete comfort. The man had been secretive this entire time, and all Glint knew for sure was that he was powerful and foreign to these parts of Shien. Then again, thought Glint, leaving his armour in that state was out of the question, regardless of what Azrael wanted. He could almost hear the thing crying, reminding him of its old form and how he’d snuck it from Horst’s forge long ago. There was no way he was going to leave it after all they’d gone through together.
The boy now turned his full attention to the gleaming liquid spilled before him, less than five feet away. It lay there perfectly still, no ripples marring its surface, almost sad at their parting. He may not trust Azrael fully, but the same was not true of his armour. He could confide in and put his faith in it fully, with no regard to the consequences. Wasn’t that what love was about, anyhow?
Glint stepped forward.
The Final Life Page 5