by Kody Boye
“You don’t seem to be doing a whole lot of moving if you ask me.”
Odin said nothing. Instead, he turned, made his way to the door, then stopped.
When he cast a glance over his shoulder and caught Nova’s gaze within his own, he saw nothing but two amber pools of remorse, agony and pain.
He couldn’t bear to look any longer.
He made his way out the door without another word.
Outside—in the cold, dampened air—Odin made his way down the streets with the world on his mind and his heart in places other than lightened states. Head down, hands limp at his sides, he crossed the distance between city hall and the town sphere only to find himself in a place that reminded him of things long past and no longer existent.
This is where I saw you, he thought, when I thought all of us were doomed to die.
His skirt around his waist, his cape about his shoulders, a cut shallow on his face and his hair tied back into a braid—he’d been a true warrior, in life, and though in death he existed in a state of nothing more than ash, no one could take away the fact that he had once been a creature who could have very easily ruled the world had he not been torn away from the life he so rightfully deserved.
“You lived a long time,” Odin whispered, crossing his arms over his chest and seating himself at the edge of the spouting fountain. “At least, I hope you did.”
Miko had once said that he’d lived to see the dawn of Ornala—that, in centuries past, he had seen the walls rise, the framework applied, the stone set and the castle assembled. A thousand years that had been, but before that, what? He’d once said he could not remember how many years had passed since the dawn of his life, since his flight from Ohmalyon, but it couldn’t possibly be that long, could it?
A thousand years is a long time to live.
Ten men could not have lived the lives that Miko had—could not, in any way, have compared their existence to a creature so great and powerful he could make weather by will, change into landscapes or destroy faces of structures that had rose from the forces of nature, unbreakable to the human hand or even his hammer. That alone, though grand and miraculous, did little to comfort Odin in his time of need, but it did enough to secure within him the fact that the Elf had lived a long, if somewhat-distressed but happy life.
“Why couldn’t it have been with me?” he whispered. “Why could you have abandoned me?”
Had his true, biological father been selfish, or had he simply been afraid for his life in the face of everything it was that controlled him so?
Without the knowledge that would likely save him from a perpetually-downward spiral of grief and madness, Odin could do little more than think about the specifics of how he had come to be conceived and just how his life could have played out had Miko cared for him and not given him to the man who had, in time, become very much like his father. He knew already that his eyes were from his Drow blood, as little and scant as it was, and his skin and lack of body the Elven part of his existence. His mother, though—he knew little of her, though guessed that she had bestowed upon him his handsome cheekbones and the slight softness of his eyes.
Miko had been such an extraordinary creature. How could Odin even think to compare himself to the Elf?
I’m part of him, he thought. At least, I was.
“And am.”
Odin circled his fingers into his palm and closed his eyes.
Though Miko was gone, that didn’t mean he couldn’t continue on with his life.
He would have to try, if only because he knew he could do nothing more than that.
When he returned to city hall later that night, he refrained from retreating into his personal office and instead chose to eat with Nova, Carmen and the rest of the men who’d stayed behind to protect Dwaydor. Their meal grand, their drinks aplenty, Odin ate until he felt as though he could eat no more, then lay on the floor and stared at the ceiling with his arm over his brow and his eyes crossing from the amount of pale light streaming through the windows. It could very well have been compared to a moment of peace that he otherwise probably would never have had, though in the current frame of things, he couldn’t help but wonder how long it would last.
Likely the result of alcohol—used both as a depressant and a way to ease a troubled soul—he didn’t expect the feeling to last much longer, less the rest of the night.
“Odin,” Carmen said, crouching down next to and poking him with an index finger. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” Odin said. “Better than I have been.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“Carmen. Can I ask you something, if it isn’t too personal?”
“Yeah.”
“What did you do when your family died?”
“Other than kill the drake?” the Dwarf asked. “Bore it.”
“Bore it?”
“There’s little else you can do when you know in your heart and soul that you’ve already done all you can to erase whatever it was that’s caused you so much grief.”
“That’s the thing,” he said. “I haven’t done anything to avenge Miko’s death.”
“You will, in time. For now though, just know that you did all you could to help him in his final moments.”
“I tried.”
“I know you did, honey.”
Leaning forward, she pressed her lips to his cheek for a single, short kiss, then strode across the room, where she returned to her place amongst a group of men who sat flipping pieces of copper into shot glasses, then downing them shortly thereafter.
Pushing himself forward, if only to allow himself a better vantage of the room, Odin clasped his hands in his lap, then leaned back against a chair, unable to contain the slight sigh that whispered from between his lips.
You’ll heal, in time.
How soon was soon?
Having no way to know, he stood, brushed the slight amount of dirt off his pants, then made his way toward his room.
There was nothing he could do now.
He had to wait, plan, and try to move forward in his life.
It came to him in a dream filled with darkness and unbearable agony. The face of his dead father distorted, the visage of a creature rotten and filled with worms present, it shambled across the scope of his vision and thrust itself upon him in the perpetual darkness that filled the surface of his eyes.
Kill me, the thing said, so much like the flesh summon had once upon a time. I am nothing.
Nothing—the word, so fine and simple, held a notion that could have been compared to something. In a sense, the very creature that looked to be the rotten image of his Elven father referred to itself in a way that could have reduced it to a simple amount of air, had it not a conscious form that carried itself across the shadowy landscape. That alone forced Odin to realize that, as the thing locked its hands around his wrist, he really was dealing with something of the real world, so in his dream, he pushed it back a few steps and watched as it attempted to come back forward.
Arms spread, mouth open, teeth destroyed and gums severed to harsh, jagged points blackened and curled around bone yellow and filled with pits—it appeared to be a beggar in the streets searching for food, something not often seen in Ornala but always elsewhere. As it approached, and as its presence began to mark itself forward, Odin took into consideration the fact that this thing could only be his father due to the purple sheen in its hair and the structure in its face. Eyes hollow, much like they had been in its previous life, and cheekbones high, even the rotting, hanging flesh did little to distort the very creature that had once looked upon him as a mentor and a father.
‘What did I do to you?’ he whispered, tugging at his hair as he took a few steps back. ‘What could I have possibly done to do such a thing?’
The book, the creature whispered. You took the book.
The moment after the flesh summon said those words, Odin opened his eyes.
Alone, in the darkened space within the locked office, he
couldn’t resist the urge to cry as tears spilled from his eyes and into his ears.
What… how?
Had he, like he so vividly imagined, brought his father back from the dead, only to isolate him within a carapace of dead flesh?
No.
It couldn’t be.
He couldn’t, nor would ever resort to using such tactics to bring a dead creature back to life.
You could be right, his conscience whispered, pressing down atop his chest like a long lost lover freshly united with its soul mate. You could very well do the thing that others have failed.
He could never do something like that—could never, in a hundred or thousand years, find a book that could teach him the art of summoning something dead back to life.
“Father,” Odin whispered, extending his hand toward the ceiling. “Can you give me a sign?”
No sign was likely to come. This he already knew, as things usually never played into his advantage even when he asked or wanted them to. He’d been lucky to survive the first wave of enemies that had come his way, but to outlast what surely could have been a long-lasting war? That in itself was a miracle.
No longer sure whether or not he would be able to sleep, Odin rose, wrapped his blanket around him, then made his way to the window, where he watched as outside clouds shadowed the moon and forever darkened the landscape.
It seemed, in that moment, that everything would go dark—that inside, the candles on their last whispers would finish burning and the melted wax would no longer work.
His breath caught in his throat.
His heart seized within his chest.
In but a heartbeat, he thought he would die from lack of oxygen.
Come on, Odin. Get a hold of yourself.
With that, he expelled the breath trapped within his throat and took another to replace it.
If he chose to go to bed now, would he surely fall asleep?
Not able to know unless he tried, Odin crossed the room, then settled himself back down beside his swords.
When he closed his eyes, they began to hum, the sound restful, comforting music to his ears.
“I had a bad dream last night,” Odin said.
“You did?” Nova asked.
“Yeah. I did.”
Around the table within the office, Odin sipped tea and tried to keep his eyes from wandering across the room and away from his friend’s face. It seemed that any time he tried to do such a thing his gaze would falter—first, he noticed, to Nova’s hands, then to the ornate table that bridged the distant between them like some great path taken only by travelers.
You already mentioned it, his conscience said. Now you have to say something.
That wasn’t necessarily true. Should he decide not to say anything, he could simply shrug it off by saying he had relived the final moments of Miko’s death, the Elf in his arms and his blood snaking through his fingers. He didn’t have to elaborate on the fact that yes, he did have a bad dream last night, but no, he had not dreamt of Miko’s death, but his rebirth as something horrible.
Sighing, Odin wrapped his hands around his warm cup and turned his attention directly to Nova.
When their gazes met, Odin thought he saw a glimmer of unease in Nova’s amber eyes.
“You ok?” Odin asked.
“I’m fine,” Nova said, the frown on his face only continuing to deepen as the moments went on. “I’m just wondering if you’re all right.”
“I’m fine.”
“Is this the first nightmare you’ve had since it happened?”
“I think so.”
Truth be told, he couldn’t remember, and even if he could, he wouldn’t have wanted to. Who wished upon themselves horrors of dreams willingly and without respect, to cast shades of darkness across windows that lay open to allow light inside? Who, by any depth of knowledge, wanted to relive things that terrified them within their most vulnerable of moments?
I sure don’t.
With a brief sigh, Odin bowed his head, sipped his tea, then stared at the table before him, no longer sure what to expect from life or just how he was supposed to deal with it.
You would never do such a thing, he thought, taking slow breaths as a hand fell upon his shoulder and instantaneously forced his attention back up and at Nova, who had since rounded the table to stand at his side. You know you wouldn’t.
“Even if I wanted to,” he whispered.
“Sorry?” Nova asked.
Odin shook his head.
After finishing his tea, he stood, made his way toward the expanse of windows at the far side of the room, then crossed his arms over his chest.
A flower of doubt began to bloom within his mind.
Would he ever resort to such a thing, had he the ability and knowledge to do it?
Though instinct told him no, his heart spoke an entirely different matter.
He sat against the wall in darkness and with only a single candle burning. Arms around his legs, knees to his chest, Odin tried to quell the burning desire that wrapped around his lungs and threatened to burn them whole. His conscience a wreck, his thoughts deviant and darker than they should have ever possibly been, it seemed as though in but a moment his mind would crack and spill forth its essence from his nose and onto the floor below.
You would never do such a thing, he thought, rocking himself in tune to the faint wind that whisked about the building and into the town.
Would he, though? Given the chance, would he really deny himself the opportunity of bringing someone who could secure his future, his hopes, dreams and, possibly, bring his sanity back to life?
“You can’t do it,” he whispered. “It’s illegal.”
In the high courts of magic, as ordained by the Elves themselves, Necromancy was not to be practiced, for its malicious intent had once destroyed a group of people and had inspired a tyranny so intense and vile it had them whole. The Drow were said to have been born from such things, from the ill use of magic, though what exactly would befall a Halfling who contained not only Elf and human blood, but the scant traces of Drow should he attempt such dark arts?
Would it hurt me?
No matter how hard he attempted to force himself not to think such thoughts, it seemed they would not escape him. Like cats troublesome and in need of milk, they wrapped around his ankles and eventually began to climb his legs—claws out, legs extended—before they made his way to his chest. Once there, those thoughts—those cats—began to dig into his torso until they burrowed out the other side of his back.
When they dropped off his shoulders, there was nothing left from where they’d come. There was no flesh, not even bone.
“It’s ok, it’s ok,” he whispered, desperate to calm himself down. “You’re not planning on doing anything rash.”
Who was he to say that he wasn’t though? In that moment, he could have done something—anything—in order to bring back the one person who had brought him salvation in his most terrible of moments, even if it meant launching himself on a mission toward the Abroen Forest to find a book that was said to make strong men bow and beautiful men old.
Though it could be a metaphor of a real warning in its own right, Odin closed his eyes and continued to rock back and forth.
It was highly possible that he could get to the forest on his own and somehow make his way through the Abroen.
If Miko could do it, so could he.
All he needed was a little faith.
“I wanted to see how you were doing,” Parfour said, stepping into the waiting room and closing the door behind him.
Odin trained his eyes on the young man’s face and attempted to make out the details he could not see in the darkness. The film over his eye, the slight discoloration at the side of his face, the hair on his chin and the pout on his lips—in this strange, surreal half-light, everything seemed lost, distorted and calm, though Odin felt as though that in particular wasn’t very necessary. Parfour had not come in order to look upon him with a face unshielded and
visible in the light. He’d come to counsel him, pure and simple.
“Thank you,” Odin said, crossing his arms over his chest and scooting over so the boy could sit.
“I can only imagine what you’ve been going through.”
“If only you knew the half of it,” he laughed.
“I could be better,” Parfour admitted, “but I’m keeping myself going, despite it all. What about you? How have you been?”
I’m trying, he thought, but said nothing in response.
Instead of speaking directly, Odin set his hands on his thighs, then leaned forward to examine the carpeting, if only to distract himself from the acolyte’s face and the likely persecution it held.
Does he know? he thought, afraid to turn his head up and see the look that was arguably within the young man’s eyes.
Did anyone know, he wondered, just what it was he felt compelled to do? It wasn’t likely, given the circumstance and the fact that he had not openly voiced his thoughts, but regardless, he couldn’t help but feel as though dozens upon dozens of eyes were staring at him. Through the walls, between the cracks in the windowpanes, around corners and through distorted, isolated figures—no matter the distance and despite the fact, he imagined everyone could see him, could feel what he was feeling and desire just what he desired. For that alone, he trembled in the presence of the young man who’d only come to see whether or not he was all right, much like he had years ago on a far-off island that bore no regret or mercy.
“Odin?” Parfour asked. “You’re shaking.”
“I know.”
“Are you all right?”
“I honestly don’t know, Parfour. I feel like I’m going crazy.”
“It’s part of the grieving process, Odin. You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself.”
How can I not when I feel like the entire world is against me?
His heart once more coiling, his organs constricting within his chest like a snake in the Tel ‘Enlath Jungle, Odin leaned forward, reached up, then snared his fingers within his hair.
Maybe, he thought, if he pulled hard enough, he could tear his hair from his scalp.