Brotherhood Saga 03: Death

by Kody Boye

  As one, they began to hum.

  Odin closed his eyes.

  There was always something special about you, he thought, reaching down to touch the black blade’s hilt.

  And the silver blade—special couldn’t describe it, could not equate it to something of a human and earthly term, for it was too great, powerful and marvelous to be anything but ordinary.

  Reaching down, Odin freed the blade from his belt and held it before his eyes.

  In the faint light streaming from the far window, the silver metal shined as though it bore its very own sun, stars and universe.

  “Thank you,” he whispered. “I know you would have wanted me to have it.”

  After freeing his own blade from his belt, he set the swords at his side, then curled up into as tight of a ball as he could.

  This feeling had to end soon.

  It couldn’t go on forever.

  Can it?

  When a knock came at the door and tore him from the nightmares wreaking havoc upon his mind, Odin rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. Unsure whether or not to believe the sound was real, he lay there with his arm over his brow and his hand on his stomach, desperate to fight the unbearable urges that seemed to be rolling throughout this body.

  Could these symptoms be of grief, or were they bodily—not, in the least, caused by his emotions?

  “Odin?” Nova asked. “Are you in there?”

  Without bothering to reply, Odin stood, unlocked the door, then opened it and fell into his friend’s arms. “I’m sorry I couldn’t stay,” he whispered, bowing his head into Nova’s shoulder. “I couldn’t bear to watch it.”

  “Neither could me or Carmen.”

  “Did the dove come back?”

  “No.”

  Good, he thought. Then it really is carrying my father’s soul.

  It took willpower he currently wasn’t able to summon in order to truly call the man who’d been his mentor for years ‘father,’ so in thinking that very thing, he felt a slight sense of power shift through his conscience and press toward the front of his mind, where it bloomed with passion and created upon his mind a portrait of relief that seemed spelled in reds, blues and greens.

  In Nova’s arms, fractured and all but well, there seemed to be a rift, pressing forward and slowly attempting to tear them away.

  Rather than wait for said rift to push them apart, Odin freed his arms from his friend’s chest, then took a few steps back, stumbling into a chair and nearly falling over in the process.

  “You all right?”

  “I’ll live,” Odin said. “I think, anyway.”

  A head peeked around the corner. Odin would not have seen it had Nova still been standing in the threshold. “Carmen?” he frowned.

  “It’s me,” the Dwarf said, stepping into the room and wrapping her arms around his leg. “Oh, Odin, I’m so sorry—for both of you. I can’t imagine what you must be going through.”

  “Thank you for putting that flower in his hand,” Odin said, crouching down to wrap his arms around the Dwarf’s shoulders. “He would have liked that.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “What about you?” Odin asked, turning his attention on Nova. “How are you holding up?”

  “I’m doing all right—better than I was, anyway. I have to tell you, Odin: when you left, I lost it.”

  “Don’t try and be strong for me, Nova.”

  “I’m trying to be strong for myself.”

  He wouldn’t have wanted us to do this.

  Were Miko here, or had he the ability to communicate with them beyond the world that he currently saw, he imagined the Elf would have told them that all was well—that beyond life, there existed an oasis, Utopia, a place where everything was peaceful, green and pure, where animals ran free and fish swam without fear.

  With the Gods, he thought. If…

  He couldn’t bear to think that nothing existed beyond life. That in itself would have been too horrible.

  Shaking his head, Odin reached up to push his hair behind his ears, then tilted his head up when he saw Amasa standing in the doorway. He offered the slightest wave in order to acknowledge his presence.

  “Sir,” the Kadarian said, stepping through the threshold and into the room. “I hate to bother you so soon after your father’s passing, but… with your permission, I’d like to assume control of the Ornalan army.”

  “Go ahead,” Odin said. “I don’t want it.”

  “You don’t?” Nova frowned.

  “How can I be expected to lead with a clear head after what all I’ve been through?” he asked, turning his attention from Amasa to Nova, then down to Carmen. He waited a moment for either of the men or the woman to respond before looking back up at Amasa. “Yes, Amasa—take control of the army.”

  “With your blessing, I’d like to initiate a forward movement in order to ensure that the enemy forces are out of the country.”

  “You have my blessing.”

  “Be well, my friend.”

  “I’ll try.”

  Amasa turned and made his way out the room.

  “What’re you going to do now?” Carmen asked, reaching up to set a hand on the back of his leg.

  “I don’t know,” Odin replied. “Wait.”

  “For what?” Nova frowned.

  An answer, he thought.

  He didn’t bother to reply.

  Night swallowed the world and his conscience whole.

  Alone, in the darkened space of the office he had so willingly taken refuge in earlier that afternoon, Odin lay curled into a ball and attempted to sleep. His heart all the heavier now than it was before, complete with a forecast of guilt and shame, his thoughts became clouds of the harshest variety—cruel, jagged things that sang of rain on long, cold days and threw lightning through the air, attempting to strike each and every thing one could possibly imagine.

  At one point, Odin saw a flicker of light before his vision.

  For one moment, he thought it could have very possibly been his imaginary lightning, though whether or not it was could be anyone’s guess.

  Sighing, he drew his blanket tightly around his body and attempted to control the tears that threatened to fill his vision.

  Don’t, he thought.

  Much to his regret, they came anyway, pooling from his eyes, over the hills of his cheekbones and down the expanse of his face.

  Would the pain ever end, he wondered, or would it simply continue for the rest of his life, a black cloud over his entire existence?

  A crack of thunder rolled over the lowlands.

  Odin shivered.

  When the telltale sign of rain began its pitter-patter against the window, he allowed himself to cry, if only to erase the pain that seemed to so desperately want to claw out of his heart.

  Reaching forward, he pressed his hand against the combined width of both his and his newly-acquainted father’s swords.

  They hummed beneath his touch.

  Throughout his entire life—through his readings, teachings, studies, research and history—not once had he ever heard a story of a weapon humming: singing, some would say, of things that could very well not be spoken of in mortal terms. The thought alone made him consider the direct possibility that should the swords be directly communicating with not only him, but each other, they could very well have been created to do such a thing.

  Could they? he thought.

  Though not out of the realm of possibilities, Odin closed his eyes, drew his hand back to his chest, then tried not to think about anything at all.

  The Elf’s face appeared in his mind.

  The strand of purple hair tingled at the base of his scalp.

  I know you’ll always be with me, but please… if you are there, give me a sign. Something—

  “Anything.”

  Odin opened his eyes.

  He saw nothing but darkness.

  A knock at the door roused him from sleep.

  “Odin?” Nova asked.


  “I’m awake,” Odin said, pushing himself to his feet just in time to see the door open and Nova peer in. “Is something wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” the man replied. “Are you all right?”

  “Why?”

  “You don’t look so good.”

  Of course I don’t, Nova. My friend and biological father just died.

  “I’m all right,” he said, reaching down to button his jerkin. “Don’t worry about me.”

  “Kind of hard not to, bud.”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  After securing the buttons on his shirt, he exited the office with little more than a passing glance down the side hall, toward a place that had, once upon a time, been inhabited by the very creature he could only refer to as his father. The lack of sight alone forced a shiver throughout his body.

  No more than two or three days ago, he had stood in this very place, looking upon the man he’d grown to love over five years of his life.

  “You ok?” Nova asked, pressing a hand against his shoulder.

  “I’ll be fine, Nova.”

  “I’m here if you need someone to talk to, bud. Don’t leave me in the dark.”

  “I won’t. Don’t worry.”

  Stepping forward, then around and through the rows of bodies that lay blanketing the expanse of the waiting room floor, he made his way toward the door, but stopped when he found that Carmen’s usual place was not occupied.

  Is she, he thought, frowning, taking note of the unassembled bed.

  The door opened.

  Odin looked up.

  The Dwarf allowed but a gust of cold wind through. “G’morning,” she said. “Odin. How are you?”

  “Not so good, Carmen.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Would you care for a walk, both of you?”

  “Anything to take my mind off of what’s going on.”

  “I’ve found that a nice walk can really clear your head if you allow it too.”

  “Hopefully that’ll be the case,” Odin agreed, letting himself out the front door after Carmen pushed it open.

  Taking the lead, if only because he was designated the first person out into the street, Odin led the way toward the distant side of town and tried not to acknowledge the fact that there were no longer rows upon rows of soldiers stationed along the sides of the street. The roads deserted, the lack of people terrifying, he crossed his arms over his chest, then clamped his fingers around his biceps when yet another cool wind blew in from the north and tossed his hair into his eyes.

  The first thing he considered was the fact that snow could possibly fall, given the temperature and the way it had rained last night, then he began to wonder whether or not the enemy had sent reconnaissance in the form of dark magic to watch not only the city, but the northern part of the country.

  Unnerved of the idea, Odin stopped in place, then turned his attention toward a nearby building, where he knew based on appearance alone the mages had to be stationed.

  It used to be a hospital, he thought. Maybe Ardut’s there.

  It could also very possibly also be the place Parfour was staying.

  “Something wrong?” Carmen asked, reaching up to tap his thigh.

  “I was thinking,” Odin said.

  “About what?” Nova asked.

  “Did you guys feel that chill?”

  “Who couldn’t?”

  “It’s making me nervous.”

  “You think it might be—“

  “A cloud?” Odin asked, turning his attention from the hospital to Nova, then down to Carmen. “Yeah. I’m worried.”

  “Only one way to find out,” Nova replied.

  “I can’t tell whether or not it’s magic,” Icklard said from his place at the hospital’s broad front window, lowering his orange-emblazoned hand and focusing his attention on the horizon. “What about you, Dom? Can you tell anything?”

  “Not particularly,” the older brother frowned. He turned his attention to Odin and offered a slight sigh. “Odin.”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you worried about this thing?”

  “Not particularly,” he replied, leaning against a nearby wall. “It’s just… with everything’s that happened…”

  “We know,” Icklard said, reaching out to first set a hand on Odin’s shoulder, then leaning forward to offer him a short embrace. “Our condolences.”

  “We couldn’t believe the news,” Domnin sighed, sliding his hands into his pockets and turning his attention down to the ground. “We were there, at his funeral.”

  “Thank you,” Odin said. “Both of you. It means a lot.”

  “There’s no need to thank us.”

  “Not in the least,” Icklard said. “The world is worse without him.”

  Is it?

  Was it, in the end, a true, sentimental statement, or just an open thought expressed in the face of sorrow? One could argue that the world, as great and grand as it was, would not suffer from the lack of one less Elf, one less hybrid and one less mage, but one could also argue that those lives that were affected from that loss could very well have been changed had he lived to see another day. With clarity and intent that existed beyond himself, Odin knew that his life would have been better, but would it have been adversely affected if the Elf had left on his own accord rather than that of death’s?

  If he would have left on his own, Odin thought, struggling to maintain his composure as a newer, fresher wave of emotions came forward, then at least I wouldn’t be struggling with the idea that he’s gone.

  “Forever,” he whispered.

  With a slow, deep breath, Odin looked up, at the horizon, then at what appeared to be moisture falling in the distance.

  He’d been wrong all along.

  The clouds were nothing more than rain.

  In the safety of city hall, curled up in a chair with his faithful blanket around his shoulders, Odin watched the lightning in the distance grow to an escalating pitch until, at one point, the sparks across the sky turned pink.

  On a normal, ordinary day, such a sight would have been beautiful—haunting, but beautiful, like the sight of a thing that appeared long rotten rising from a shallow grave to breathe for another day. On a day like this, however, it seemed only to further secure the fact that he was all the more alone in the world.

  You know, his conscience whispered, stroking his collarbone and wrapping its fingers around his shoulders. You could let them in.

  Sure. It was perfectly reasonable to think that he could allow both Nova and Carmen into the room, maybe even Parfour, Ardut and the mage brothers in order to isolate his pain, but what purpose would that serve other than to spread his misery?

  “I can’t give it to them,” he whispered. “I can’t.”

  It seemed to be a tumor, this thing of his—growing, festering, rotting beneath the surface of his skull and slowly poisoning his bloodstream. He half expected to die from the feeling alone, such was the pain that seemed to flow throughout his body and spiraled into his chest. He wanted to scream, to cry and, most horribly, die, and while he knew such a thing would do nothing to solve his problem, he couldn’t help but feel as though not existing would help ease the burden that life seemed to be imparting upon him.

  It’s the middle of the day, he thought, and I’m sitting in a dark room all by myself.

  Some would have argued that isolation would do nothing to better his problem—that given his nature, he would have done better being around a group of people, friends at the very least. The thought alone seemed to taunt him, like a bear encaged and forced to be put on public display where such things were no longer allowed to exist.

  When a knock came at the door, Odin remained steadfast in his seat.

  No matter the cause, no matter the need, he would not move from his place in his seat.

  “Commander,” a voice said.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Sir Eternity has asked that you come eat dinner with him and Lady Delaros
a.”

  “Tell him I’m not feeling well.”

  “He insists.”

  Rather than risk making a fool of himself, Odin chose to remain silent and bridged the distance between him and the door. Once there, he inserted the key into the doorknob, sighed, then collapsed against the wall and slid into a sitting position.

  There—on the floor, in no more than a pair of pants and with no shoes to adorn his feet—his emotions threatened to take hold and grind him into the dirt.

  Everything will be fine, he thought. You just have to keep telling yourself that.

  Would it, though?

  In the end, he couldn’t—nor, he thought, wouldn’t—know.

  Hunger drove him from his pursuit of a full night’s rest. Gnawing, roaring, clawing at him as though he were a hunk of fresh meat on a butcher’s grand block, he pushed himself from his place on the floor and unlocked the door without so much as a whisper under his breath.

  Then and there, he stepped out into the hall, then into the waiting room, where he found Nova and Carmen sitting up whispering among themselves.

  “Hey,” Odin said, careful to keep his voice lowered as to not disturb the men sleeping around them.

  “Hey,” they both replied.

  “Is there anything to eat around here?”

  “We’ve got biscuits,” Carmen said, lifting one of the small, bubble-shaped pieces of bread from a tray at her side. “Would you like one? Maybe two?”

  “You never did eat dinner,” Nova mumbled.

  “I needed a while to myself,” Odin said, stepping forward to accept one of the biscuits Carmen offered.

  “Did you get anything sorted out?”

  “No.”

  Sighing, all the more aware that what he had just spoken could have been the kiss of death to the entire morning, he shoved the piece of bread into his mouth, then accepted a second when Carmen pushed it forward. “Are you guys ok?” Odin asked.

  “I’m doing better,” Nova said. “It sucks, losing someone so close to you.”

  “I’m not sure what to feel,” Carmen shrugged, easing herself back in her seat. “I didn’t know the guy, but I hate seeing the two of you suffer.”