by Kody Boye
It was glorious.
“It’s awfully calm today,” Domnin mused, leaning against the railing. “Don’t you think?”
“Don’t fall,” Odin warned.
“We won’t fish you out,” Icklard chuckled.
“Yeah right,” Domnin laughed. “You’d be jumping right in after me.”
“Don’t count on it, brother.”
As though thinking better than to potentially risk falling into the ocean, Domnin pushed himself away from the railing and arched his back to stretch his muscles. He rolled his shoulders, loosened the strain in his arms, and smiled, reaching up to scratch his shaven, if somewhat-stubbly chin. “So,” he said, looking from Odin, to his brother, then back again. “What do you two want to do?”
“I don’t know,” Odin shrugged. “I’m fine just standing out here.”
“You’ll get bored of that here quick,” Icklard smiled, smacking Odin’s arm. “But you already know that.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“I’m tempted to make a sphere out of water, except I don’t want to get in trouble.”
“A sphere out of water?” Odin frowned. “What would you do with that?”
“We toss it back and forth,” Icklard smiled. “It gets pretty wild at times, especially when we start running around the deck.”
“We always end up hitting someone with it,” Domnin confessed.
“The last time we played, Domnin nailed Jerdai right in the face.”
Odin grimaced. “Ouch.”
“Doesn’t feel too good to get hit in the face with a flying ball of water,” Icklard agreed. “But hey, Jerdai wasn’t mad for too long.”
“Yeah, after I cleaned dishes and tidied his room for a month,” Domnin muttered, rolling his eyes.
“Bet you didn’t get laid for a while.”
“Do we really have to bring that up?”
“Hey! I’m just saying!”
“Anyway,” the older brother mumbled. “I bet we could get away with it if Odin played.”
“I don’t know,” Odin said. “I don’t want to get us in trouble.”
“You won’t get in trouble. Miko’s paid your way onto the ship.”
“That doesn’t mean I can do whatever I want though.”
The younger, red-haired brother smirked, lighting the tip of his pointer finger in green light. He shot a dart of light at his brother, who quickly raised his hand and stopped it with a bowl-sized barrier.
“This one drives him even more nuts than the water game,” Domnin chuckled. “Especially when we start reflecting light off our barriers.”
“It doesn’t hurt anyone,” Icklard explained, repelling a bit of Domnin’s orange magic. “If anything, it’s annoying.”
“Here, Odin—catch.”
Odin ducked before a bolt of magic could hit him in the face. Domnin chuckled, but quickly changed his tune when Odin retaliated with a shot of his own. The snow-white dart of light bounced off Domnin’s shield, then flew at Icklard, who quickly reflected it abck at Odin.
“See?” Domnin laughed, catching the single orb of light within his outstretched palm. “It keeps you entertained.”
“Especially when you get a crowd,” Icklard said.
“Is that how you get caught?” Odin smirked.
“Pretty much.”
The two of them returned their eyes to Domnin, whose attention was set on the orb of light between his clawed fingers. The white orb of magic pulsed within his grasp, nearly invisible in the harsh glow of the afternoon sun. “I never thought about it until now,” the older brother said, “but you do know white magic is rare, right?”
“No,” Odin frowned. “I didn’t.”
“Purple is too,” Icklard added. “I had only heard of it before your knight master helped us fend off the Sirens.”
“Do the colors mean anything?”
“Dark Elves usually only have purple or dark-red-colored magic,” Domnin said, extinguishing the white orb with a clench of his fist. “White, though… Icklard, do you remember what’s so special about it?”
“It’s known for its healing properties.”
“Ah!” Domnin grinned. “I remember now. Like Diana.”
“Yeah.”
“Diana?” Odin asked, blushing when both brothers turned to look at him.
“You don’t know who Diana is?” Icklard frowned.
“No.”
“Diana,” Domnin said. “Also known as Gaia.”
“The Goddess of Life,” Icklard finished.
“Oh,” Odin nodded. “All right. I know who you’re talking abiout now.”
“Legend says she came over the Crystal Sea to the mainland of Minonivna with the Elves thousands of years ago. She supposedly brought life back to our dying land.”
“Plants bloomed from dead rock under her feet,” the older brother continued, “and animals emerged from their caves to walk alongside her. She raised her arms and seeds fell from the heavens, planting the trees, the shrubs, the grass.”
“She healed the sick and the dying,” Icklard said, crouching down to stare at the wood beneath their feet. “She touched near-dead men and made them young, brought children out of eternal sleep, purified the water tainted with disease and blood. I’m surprised you don’t know about her, Odin. But, then again, she’s not that traditional in mainstream religion.”
“Why not?” Odin asked.
“She was declared a heathen and burned as a witch.”
“They say as she died,” Domnin sighed, “that the animals from the nearby forests came to witness her death. Some… some even say they shed tears.”
“Animals can’t cry,” Odin said.
“They did when Diana died.”
“You know,” Icklard said, standing to his full height. “We’re lucky that people have opened their eyes since then. We wouldn’t be here if they hadn’t.”
“I know,” Odin said, looking down at his hands. He thought of the magic flowing through his blood and how Diana, a woman who had only sought to bring good to the dying land of Minonivna, had been burned because of the gift that had helped so many, that had given birth to all life on the mainland and had made their world habitable again. “It… it makes me sad, knowing that people still don’t understand each other.”
“Me too,” Domnin sighed. “Me too, Odin. Me too.”
“Don’t you ever wish you didn’t have your gift,” Icklard said, reaching out to grip Odin’s arm. “Because sometimes, if you wish you didn’t have something, that something can disappear forever.”
“Sir,” Odin said. “Can I talk to you for a moment?”
Miko turned from his place at the window, purple eyes calm but curious. “Yes,” the Elf said. “You know you can.”
“I was just wondering,” he began, settling down on his bed, “why you never told me the story behind my magic.”
“Your magic?”
“Diana,” he said. “Or Gaia, I mean.”
“Ah.” Miko crossed the short distance from the window to Odin’s bed. There, he kneeled to the floor and set a hand on Odin’s bare knee, his thumb trailing up to where his first battle scar lay just beneath the fabric of his trousers. “I never thought it was important enough to tell you.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not sure. You’ve never asked about it either.”
“I know,” Odin sighed. “But… well… I just figured you’d tell me.”
“I don’t want to tell you everything, Odin. What good would it do to tell you everything when you could learn it for yourself?”
“I guess, sir.” He looked down at his knight master’s hand. A long, bony finger slid along the surface of his scar, sending shivers up his spine and into the back of his neck. Miko stopped the moment he realized the action.
“It’s still sensitive,” the Elf said, seating himself beside Odin. “Does it bother you much?”
“Not unless I touch it.”
“Your hip?”
“It�
��s fine.”
“May I see it?”
Odin stood. He slid his shirt over his head, then loosened his belt, holding his trousers in place whilst sliding his pants down to reveal his now-healed hip. The once-knotted mas of purple, blue and black had since disappeared, healed by the natural wonder of his half-human body.
Half-human, he thought, blinking when he felt his master’s hand on his hip.
Did it mean anything to be half-Elf? Did it grant him extraordinary powers of perceition or give him the ability to tune in to other people’s emotions? How, exactly, could he know if he had never experienced being human?
I was human for sixteen years of my life, he thought. Miko’s thumb rolled around the ball of his hip, occasionally pressing down as it searching for any defect that may have gone unnoticed. That should give me an idea.
“I don’t see anything wrong,” the Elf frowned, gesturing Odin to pull his trousers back into place. “If it starts bothering you, please tell me. I would not want you to unintentionally injure yourself in battle.”
“I can walk and run just fine,” Odin said, tightening his belt. “You don’t think it’ll cause problems, do you?”
“There are some young men, like yourself, who are injured in a skirmish and cannot fight for the rest of their lives. Of course, even if you managed to be crippled in a fight, you’re still far more useful than an average soldier. Your Gift makes up for any weakness you may have. But no—I don’t think your past injuries will cause you problems. You’re young, and the body has a miraculous way of curing that which we cannot see.”
“Yes sir,” he said, bowing his head. “Thank you.”
“Was there anything else you needed?”
Odin shook his head.
“Good,” the Elf smiled, turning away from him. “If you have any questions, feel free to come back.”
For some reason, Odin took that as a sign to leave.
Nova stood near the railing, looking out at the ocean. At this time of day, with the sun almost directly above, most of the men had since peeled their shirts off, revealing flaking or scarred, red skin. Nova himself had decided to take this method into consideration. He, occasionally, scratched at the beard that framed his cheeks and jaw, as if it pained him to have so much hair on his face. The teardrops of moisture that beaded down his cheeks gave Odin the impression that such a thing might be uincomfortable.
“If it’s hot,” Odin said, stepping forward, “why don’t you shace it?”
“Because I like my beard,” Nova smirked, glancing over his shoulder. “It’s about time.”
“Sorry. I was with Icklard and Domnin, then I went to see Miko.”
“Is he all right?”
“He’s fine,” Odin frowned. “Why? Do you know something I don’t?”
“Not unless you count his looking out the window something you don’t know.”
“Do you think he sees things we can’t, Nova?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. He’s got the blood of two different Elves in him—who knows what he can see.”
Odin shrugged. He nudged Nova’s ribs as a group of men passed.
“You know I won’t say anything,” the older man whispered, slapping his back.
“I know. I just don’t want someone to accidentally hear us and tell Jerdai.”
“You really think he’d kick us off the boat just because Miko’s a Halfling?”
“You heard what Icklard said. ‘Since when does the captain let Elves on his ship?’”
“Yeah,” Nova grunted, turning his eyes back to the ocean. “I guess you’re right.”
With nothing further to say, Odin turned his attention to the sea and watched the gentle waves roll back and forth in the mass of water below them. In the long months they’d been at sea, he’d learned that still water was something to be wary of. The night the Sirens had struck the ship, killing a dozen of Jerdai’s men, the sea had been dead-calm, just as it had just before the terrible storm that had cost him and Nova their lives. It would’ve seemed that such stillness was meant to be an omen—a foreshadowing, some may say, of epic proportions, that was meant to be viewed and as such prepared for.
“Hey,” Nova said, drawing Odin from his thoughts. “Can I ask you a question?”
“What is it?”
“When do you think we’ll get to where we’re going?”
“I don’t know,” Odin sighed, closing his eyes, baring his neck to the salty air. “I wish I did though.”
When Nova could no longer bear the heat, Odin rejoined Icklard and Domnin at the front of the ship, where they lfited orbs of water for the dolphins to play with. The sleek, shining creatures trailed alongside the boat in glee, squeaking greetings, flipping in circles and twirling just above the surface of the water whenever the orbs of water chased after them.
“They’re mammals, you know?” Domnin said, looking up at Odin.
“I know,” Odin said. “I’ve been told.”
“Fish don’t breathe air,” Icklard commented, raising one of the orbs just in time for a dolphin to jump from the water to capture it between its outstretched jaws. “There’s a few other creatures that breathe through blowholes or through their noses, but I’ve never seen any of them.
Domnin tossed an orange-sized ball of moisture into the air, smiling when several of the creatures circled beneath the water as if they were sharks or other predatory creatures. “Some say everything came from the water. Supposedly, if you want to believe the legend and what the Seers have said, our world was once a giant ocean, a playground for all things big and small.”
“The Elves rose first,” Icklard said, “in the form of smooth, pale-skinned creatures.”
“They weren’t always beautiful though,” Domnin commented. “They once looked like the things that haunt the marshes near where you’re from, Odin. You know of them, right?”
“The… uh…” Odin paused. “What are they called again?”
“Marsh Walkers.”
Odin nodded. He remembered them, more than well if he wanted to truly admit to it. Such things were meant to be avoided, he knew, from what his father had once said—that when hungry, and devoid of natural food, they would take children and even livestock into the marshes and drain them of their blood with twin, fanged incisors that rested within their beaks. Contrary to belief, however, these things were not birds—were anything but. With big black eyes, long, bulbous fingers, skin that looked constantly wet and a height of some six feet tall, they resembled an amphibious creature much like a frog or even a salamander. It was for this reason, and from looking at an artist’s interpretation, that he had a very hard time believing what Domnin had said—that such an ugly creature, who appeared to be anything but beautiful, could, transform into something so magnificent, so beautiful, so articulate and pure. Miko could have never been such an ugly thing, even in millennia past, so it was for that reason when, in looking at Domnin’s face, Odin said, “I’m not so sure I believe that,” then shrugged, hoping his words hadn’t offended either of his friends.
“Neither am I,” Domnin said. “It’s just what I’ve read in a few old books.”
“It is hard to believe,” Icklard agreed. “I’m not sure about it myself.”
“We’re trained mages, Odin—we’re expected to look at things from all sides.”
“I’m not saying that’s a bad thing,” Odin said, looking up at the brothers. “I’m just saying I’m not so sure about it.”
“That’s the bad thing about mortality, huh?” Domnin laughed. “It keeps uf from seeing the things we want to see.”
“Just imagine what Miko’s seen,” Icklard mused.
Yeah, Odin thought. Just imagine.
Night bloomed darkness.
Outside, a dull orb of white light lit up the night sky, extending its rays like petals to a lily that only flowered in the blackest places of the world. It cast an iridescence across the water in a way that made the low-hanging mist shine—seemingly, of course, like m
ushrooms struck by magic and forced to glow for the rest of time.
Stepping from the inside of the boat and onto the deck, Odin scanned the area in search of his knight master, careless as to whether or not his presence would disturb a moment that would rather have been left alone. Miko had stepped out of the room earlier, saying he’d return in but a moment, but hadn’t come back since.
Maybe, just maybe, he’d finally found the thing he’d been looking for.
Taking his first deep breath of the cool, night air, Odin drew his cloak around his shoulders and made his way further onto the deck. Beneath the crow’s nest, shielded in an octagon in light, he experienced a feeling of lineliness he hadn’t felt since Ornala, when he’d been locked in the tower. Around him, light—seeming to beckon him with its pleasant presence—danced and flickered whenever the waves shifted the surface of the fog, taunting him into submission. Out here, alone and without the company of others, it chose to threaten him with solitude, that of which seemed all the more present in light of the fog rolling up from the sea and onto the deck.