by Sohan Ahmad
Tyr’s lust overtook him. “Give me both, Tomlin; I must try one of each.” He rummaged through his pouch, counting each coin until the glimmer in his eyes turned to dust. “Sorry for wasting your time Tomlin. I have to go.”
“What are you doing, child?” the merchant asked with a smile. “There is no payment for a gift between friends. Take as much as you like.”
“Why are you being kind to me?” Tyr asked, sniffling heavy breaths to block tears from forming. “You know nothing about me.”
“I know all I need to, silly boy,” Tomlin answered. “You have a good heart. I can see it with my merchant’s eye.” He prepared a small sack for Tyr to take with him. “Eat and enjoy for my sake. Just one thing I must ask: keep this little secret between us. I have seen your father on a rare occasion,” he said with a gulp, “And I would rather he not discover that I spoiled his son.” Tyr burst out into laughter. “Did I say something daft?” the trader asked.
“Sorry, Tomlin,” Tyr answered after releasing a few lingering chuckles. “You just reminded me of something.” Does he think of me as his son? I hope he can be my father forever. Tyr never thought to correct his friend. Hearing the words felt as natural as breathing the air that coursed through his lungs. “Thank you again for the salt and sweet, but I should return before my father starves.” He filled the remainder of his sack with bread and grain in exchange for three silver coins before taking his leave. “Farewell, friend Tomlin.”
“Farewell, silly Tyr.”
He munched on crisped baby potatoes and strips of salted beef while basking in the refreshing afternoon sun. The young swordsman continued down the road with nary a care in the world until he crossed paths with a group of local boys marching carelessly toward him. “Look at the forest monkey,” two of them whispered conspicuously, “he’s probably smiling because he found a banana. Ooh ooh, aah aah.” Tyr did his best to ignore the ignorant prattle until a familiar voice chimed in.
“You two have it all wrong. He’s no monkey.” The voice had matured over the last five years, but there was no mistaking the arrogant tone of Thena’s older brother. “He’s smiling because he just killed someone,” Erik muttered, spitting a wad of wet in Tyr’s direction. “Filthy murderer.”
A thick glob of white saliva struck his chest, but the Breeze continued on, chewing his salt and sweet to mask the bitter taste in his heart. As he approached the town gate, he overheard the casual chatter of five teenage girls and spotted Thena among the crowd. She looks well, I wonder if she remembers me as well as her brother does.
Before a single word could part his lips, poison-tipped arrows of the tongue pierced his previously marked chest. “Run away, a wild animal escaped the woods!” shouted someone from the crowd.
“He smells like a horse. Make sure you don’t breathe in his stench,” another mocked.
Despite all of the difficulties destiny had forced upon him, he was still a child like any other. The venom of malicious harpies seared his skin worse than any steel ever could, but he had taken life and survived death. It’s only a flesh wound, ignore them, he reminded himself, silencing the unwanted noise in order to greet the young woman with whom he once shared his dream. “Hello Thena, it’s been a long time. You look well. How have you been?”
The shameless harpies wailed at her with stares of disgust: “Thena, what is this repulsive thing talking about? Don’t tell us you’re friends with an animal.”
She would never forget me. Tyr evaded their insults once again, smiling instead at the fond memories that swam through his mind. Not her.
“Of course not,” Thena responded with a giggle. “Why would I ever befriend a smelly beast?” Tyr’s face turned a ghostly pale, the pristine image of her younger self slowly eroding as she continued, “I have never seen him before in my life. Is he the thing from the mountains that everyone talks about? He’s fouler than I’ve heard. We should leave before his stink infects us.”
His first kiss turned her back on him as if their treasured moments together had been little more than a figment of his imagination. The young Breeze stood silent, and the warmth in his heart turned to ice, shattering a thousand times. Master told me there are two kinds of people in this world: those who are blessed and those who are not. I tried and tried to be the first kind, but I think the gods have already decided which one I am. As the thorn-faced roses departed, he sulked a few moments more until, finally, he grew tired of staring at the wretched backs of she-devils.
Once he neared the edge of town, Thena turned to see his back. I never wanted to hurt you, but this is how it has to be. I cannot be a swordsman’s wife; I don’t have the courage. Forgive me, Tyr.
And so, they parted, like leaves split by the stream. He did not lament, nor would he. Fairness and equality could not survive in a world still chained to hatred, he saw that now. As one of those who are not blessed, I’m ready and willing to walk down any dark path my life leads me to . . . with a smile on my face. Tyr discarded Tomlin’s gifts to the suddenly bitter autumn wind and returned to the only one who could still love him.
Seven suns set on the world before Tyr’s necessary return for supplies. His taste for Scilians was no less sour, but his master’s unexpected company made the journey just sweet enough to endure. Not once within that time did he ever speak of the indignities suffered from the tongues of the Pelamar brood. Master won’t fight my battles for me. It’s just as well, Thena never meant anything to me. The lies he told himself were never quite as convincing as he had hoped, but they would have to do.
It had been many moons since the Wind had joined him on such a chore, and he would not waste the chance to walk as father and son. As they made for Tomlin’s table, they encountered one of the trader’s associates from the East, an old fabric merchant by the name of Tycas Morel. “Dress like a dragon,” he shouted to the streets. “Girl or boy, it makes no difference.”
He had on display three wooden dolls, dressed in a blended fabric of northern and eastern design. Wonder if he’d give me the blue one as a gift like Tomlin did. Tyr hoped, gazing at a blue tunic trimmed in scarlet gold, three ebony buckles running down the center as a black hawk spread its wings wide across the back.
“What distracts you, child?” Zephyrus called out, noticing Tyr’s absence nearly a dozen steps later.
“Apologies, Master. It is nothing you need concern yourself with,” he answered, hiding his yearning gaze.
“Tyr,” the Saint replied, raising a skeptic brow with a tone as sharp as his blade.
“It’s nothing, Master, I swear. I just saw a fancy tunic at the fabric merchant’s table.”
“Describe it to me,” Zephyrus said, stunning his disciple with his sudden interest. And so, the young Breeze complied, painting a picture with his words as if he had stitched the yarn himself. The Saint could not recall ever hearing such passion in the boy’s voice. Is it a remnant of his former life? “Do you like wearing fancy things?” he asked, his tone much duller, subdued by the subtlety of genuine intrigue.
However, the question lacked any measure of delicacy toward the tensions within Tyr, who was too ashamed to answer. There was an uncomfortable moment of silence between the two that lasted longer than either would have liked. “Well, a swordsman has no need for fancy things, only his sword,” the Wind remarked awkwardly, all too eager to escape and move on.
As the Breeze followed after him, he could not help but wonder, Maybe, that’s why they fear us. What if we did wear fancy things? He pondered for a moment before a voice caught his ear.
“Sebastian!” a woman yelled from behind.
That name . . . As Tyr turned, his heart pounded heavy within his chest. But when his eyes found the woman, they found her hovering over a little boy with sheer terror in her eyes.
“Sebastian, don’t you ever run into the street like that again. You scared your mother half to death,” she lectured the child.
It was nothing. The tremor in his heart settled, but the specter of that name c
rept its way into his head. What did you expect to see? “Sorry for making you wait, Master.”
“Hurry up, child,” Zephyrus replied. “I will not wait forev…”
“Master!” Tyr interrupted, his voice leaping from his throat to reach the Wind. “Look out for that carriage!”
Zephyrus froze his feet in an instant as the wagon rider barely managed to yank the reins on his dual mares. “Fool, open your eyes!” he shouted.
“Apologies,” the Saint said with little care in his voice.
“That’s all you have to…” However, the rider shuttered at the sight of a sword dangling on Zephyrus’s hip. “No, no problem at all,” he scurried to correct himself. “I should have been more careful. Please forgive me,” the rider said in a tone as timid as a mouse before darting off, panicked, as if he were the one who had nearly lost his life.
Why did Master not evade? Tyr’s earlier concerns subsided, replaced by fear for his mentor. He must have seen the horses coming, so why? He gazed at the Wind in search of an answer, but even after five long years together, his mentor’s silence shared no answers. He seems fine, no different from any other day. It must be my imagination, but I wish he would say something, anything.
Zephyrus continued his march home as if nothing had happened. When he finally broke the silence, it was to bark, “Wake up, child, or I will leave you behind.”
“Yes, Master,” Tyr replied, the restlessness in his mind easing as he hurried to catch up. Stupid. Nothing could ever harm the God of Wind.
Zephyrus awoke the following morning before the light of dawn had yet to warm the sky. Flakes of frost still dusted the forest green when he returned to Trader Tycas, leaving his apprentice behind to slumber. “Excuse me, I am looking for the blue tunic with a hawk painted on its back. My son showed interest, and I wish to purchase it.”
Tycas was startled to see a patron so early in the day. When did he arrive? Silent as a cloud, he is. “Apologies, sir, but they have been sold to another,” the merchant answered as Zephyrus grumbled beneath his breath. “Do not fret, good sir,” the trader advised, scampering amongst his wares. “There is another in my crates, I’m sure of it.” When Tycas returned, the master blade dropped four silver coins in the merchant’s palm and vanished into the morning mist. The merchant smiled, bidding his patron farewell with the deepest of sighs. Thank the Dragon’s Star he didn’t mind the color.
“Wake up, Tyr,” Zephyrus said upon his return.
“What is it, Master?” asked the Breeze, blinded by the intense glow of an early sun.
“Open it and see, child,” the Saint returned.
What could it be? The young swordsman wondered, wiping fresh morning crust from his eyes. Master only ever gets me cheap swords, but this feels soft. His eyes glistened upon revealing the contents of the sack, and a wide smile stretched across his face as he slid his slender arms into the satin sleeves trimmed so long that he now appeared handless. Still, such details were irrelevant. “Master, how do I look?” he asked, spinning himself in circles to display every inch of his gift.
“It suits you,” Zephyrus answered with a grin. “The blue compliments your eyes.”
Blue? Tyr asked himself. It’s clearly red. The events of the prior day flashed before his mind. Impossible, there’s no way he could be . . . I have to know. “These silver pants are perfect.”
The Saint agreed, but in truth, the trousers were as black as the hawk etched into the tunic. Tyr wrapped his arms around the Wind, squeezing with every inch of his trembling fingers. How long have you been hiding this from me?
“Stop wasting the sun’s time,” Zephyrus barked, shaking off the boy’s affection like a buzzing fly. “Get to your training.”
Tyr hesitated to let go, mustering only enough courage for a handful of words. “Thank you, Master, I’ll cherish it forever.” As he walked outside to the warmth of light, a cold chill brushed against his back, for a day had arrived that he had never foreseen. The force of nature, the God of Wind, the hero, the mentor, and the father . . . had suddenly discarded his divine grace for the flaws of an aging man. Tyr could finally glimpse the mortal shell that hid beneath his master’s colossal shadow. It was old and frail, made of flesh and bone, not wind and steel as he had believed for so long. How can I defeat an invisible enemy that is strong enough to cripple a Saint?
Zephyrus was a proud and fearless man, never one to complain, and he was also never known as one to gift. Tyr began hearing the scattered grumblings of the handful of wise graybeards he had encountered during his years of travel. When a man behaves against his nature, his actions are guided by Death’s bony hand. When ravens cry, someone soon will die, for sorrow is silent in its approach. He hoped that these were nothing more than the empty ramblings of those long forgotten by youth, but never before did he dread ravens more.
Another seven suns of autumn had risen and fallen like green from the trees. It was time for Tyr to return to the hated Scilia once again though he forbade Zephyrus to join him. While the he performed his duties, a hooded stranger entered the town’s borders. The wanderer’s face took no form, hidden within the darkness of his cowl. “I seek a swordsman and his apprentice,” he said through raspy breaths, but his presence confused the senses. The townspeople did not know whether to hide in fear or stare with curiosity. Regardless, few Scilians claimed to know the ones he sought.
The drifter’s search continued, yielding no fruit until he happened upon a haggard old beggar. “Over her, faceless friend,” he pleaded. “Put coin in withered hands, and I breath my wisdom to ya.”
“What can you tell me, old vagrant?” asked the stranger.
“First, pay toll,” answered the beggar, grinning through crusted lips.
The drifter tossed two gold coins in the air: “Enlighten me, then.”
As any beggar would, he leaped at the lumps of shiny metal like a dog to bone. The slit in his mouth parted wide, revealing two rotting rows of crooked yellow, but when he turned his gaze skyward toward his patron, his eyes quivering within their sockets. The street rat scurried back as far as he could until he felt the trapping touch of oak against his back, for in truth, he had no truth to impart.
His beggar’s tricks had gotten the better of him, it seemed, until an image shined along the corner of a crusted eye. “There, my friend. He has the answers you seek!” the old vagrant squealed, wagging his sullen, withered finger toward a young man just beyond the smooth, dirt road.
There stood Tyr, concluding his business with his dear friend Tomlin. The hooded wanderer saw the blade on his hip, a rare enough sight in a place so sheltered from the western conflict. However, as he continued to stare at the teen’s blond hair and slender frame, he began to recall an image from the past.
Before he knew of the chatter between vagrant and drifter, Tyr felt the lingering touch of another’s gaze upon his back. He turned to answer his instincts, and his eyes met the stranger’s for a blink. In that briefest ripple of time, he painted into his memory every strand of hair, every stitch of colored fabric, and every spec of skin within view.
Just then, a cloud of dust emerged to distort the portrait as a pair of chestnut Clydesdales went rabid, foaming at the mouth and stomping the dirt road with their powerful ivory hooves. Three men it took to rein in their rage before a cool gust burst through the air. Where did he go? Tyr’s sharpened pupils darted from left to right in desperate search of the hooded image still fresh in his mind, but there was no trace of the man.
“Is everything in order, my boy?” Trader Tomlin asked in concern.
“Apologies,” Tyr said, blinking twice to clear his sight. “I thought I saw a familiar face.” Though his vision cleared, his thoughts were yet clouded. Am I going blind as well, or is Master’s poor health too heavy a distraction? But the sword on his hip called for his fingers to grip. I should return to Master.
He bid farewell to the jovial peddler, and as he made toward the forest with great haste, the drifter materialized from th
e darkness of a nearby alley. Finally, his faceless shadow cracked open with a crescent of light, a wicked grin of pristine pearls donned across his black veil as he slowly stalked the Breeze.
A short walk into the woods, Tyr’s grip grew tighter. “Come out,” he shouted to the birds that chirped atop their branches. “I know you’re there.” But there was no answer beyond the startled scampers of rabbits and squirrels from rustling bushes. Stay sharp. Trust your instincts like Master taught. Deeper into the woods he continued, and the animals grew restless, fleeing as soon as Tyr came near. They’re never been afraid of me. Why now?
The hairs on his neck tingled at the slightest graze of breath against his back. “Come out you coward!” he shouted, releasing the blade from his scabbard as he turned in circles in search of the specter that haunted him. Tension mounted in his shoulders, stiffening his grip. Damn it, where are you?
His doubts surrounded him in a fire that crept closer, but would not burn until a cool wind passed by his shoulders with a gentle caress, as if it spoke in his master’s voice. Calm down Tyr. Yelling at trees won’t do any good. He knew the words to be true, but his feet grew tired of measured steps, choosing instead to leave his stalker to choke on the dust of his speed.
Zephyrus sat outside on the limestone steps of his front porch, inhaling flavored breaths of herb from a pale umber pipe. Just a few days earlier, I could still see their lines, but now, there is only darkness. He grasped at the rings of purple smoke escaping his lungs, but even his fingers appeared out of reach. I should leave Tyr. There is nothing left for me to teach. If I stay, I will just become a burden. Finally, it is time. I have hidden him from his past long enough.
Before the old blade could finish his thought, a voice called out from the woods, “Master, I’m home!”
The Wind’s ears twitched to the tension in his pupil’s throat until he discovered the cause. “Tyr, who is your guest?” he asked, in a tone so stern, it scattered the auburn leaves floating besides his apprentice.