by Kody Boye
Dressed in a lace gown, bearing a bouquet of beautiful red roses, she walked down the aisle with grace Nova would have never expected and raised her head to reveal the face that lay shadowed behind the veil. In a manner that symbolized the ducking molting its feathers and turning into the beautiful swan before bearing upon itself the strain of flight, Katarina started forward, heels clicking in her pursuit up the aisle, and tossed her head back, the skirt of her veil cascading through the air as if it were some great rain falling down from the clearest of skies. Debonair, yet as humble as she could possibly be, she lifted the bouquet higher to her heart and continued down the aisle, her shoes the only sound that could be heard throughout the room.
Two flower girls followed. Both scattered petals.
Immediately, the scent of roses overwhelmed the room.
Nova’s eyes watered.
Stepping forward, but careful not to trip on her gown, Katarina smiled, mounted the stairs, then set the bouquet on the stone table between them before turning to face him.
You’re so beautiful, he wanted to say, but chose to keep his compliments to himself.
“We’ve come to join these two together,” the priest began, opening a large book, “in holy matrimony. By the power invested in me by the church, my God and my people, I hereby begin the bonding of these two young souls.” He looked up at Nova, then to Katarina. “Novalos Eternity, the groom, and Katarina Noahna, the bride, are here today to pledge their love for each other in the presence of friends and family. If anyone here feels as though this young couple should not be together, please, speak now or forever hold your peace.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Nova saw a few people speaking to one another. He swallowed the lump in his throat over the sight of complete strangers whispering and tried his hardest not to tremble in the face of it.
Unnerved, but not deterred, he turned to look into Katarina’s eyes.
Hidden by lace, shrouded in shadow, he could only imagine what their blue depths held.
For him, however, he saw nothing but his future.
This is it, he thought, the sound of the world once more drowning out. This is why it doesn’t matter. This is why they can say whatever they want and it won’t hurt us one bit.
“Good,” the priest nodded, closing his book. “Mr. Eternity—will you please present your ring to Miss Noahna?”
Reaching into his suit, Nova slid the black box out of his pocket and opened it. He plucked the ring from its place within the plush felt and slid it onto Katarina’s finger in but one swift motion, all the while glowing with pride and admiration.
Her face—her tears—said everything he needed to know about one of the most valuable gifts Ketrak had given him throughout the past year.
“Miss Noahna,” the priest then said. “Will you please present your ring to Mr. Eternity?”
Ketrak stepped forward, case in hand, and offered the ring to Katarina. With a nod, she took the box, popped it open, then took the single gold band with a lone ruby inlaid into its surface and slid it onto Nova’s finger.
Nova felt a splash of warmth at his wrist.
“And now,” the priest said, “I declare you husband and wife.”
It took little urging to do what he did next.
Stepping forward, Nova slid his fingers beneath Katarina’s veil, then pulled it up and over her head.
She glowed more than ever, despite the tears and the makeup running down her face.
His lips met hers.
Their hearts intertwined.
From that moment on, he knew he would be a different man.
Never again would he have to wake up feeling alone.
2
Months after the wedding, and during a time in which Nova felt himself becoming a part of the Noahna family, he lay in bed thinking about how his life had changed and the way his time as a married man had affected him. Selling his father’s old house, a grand, tumultuous and painful decision; moving into the Noahna mansion; taking up the bridle as a married man and the life of a husband who was apt to serve his wife as well as he could—whether shoveling the snow from the main path or helping one of Ketrak’s many cooks make dinner, he tried his best to keep himself active and healthy, as it seemed in the frigid weather there was little work to be done.
How he wanted winter to be over and for the spring to come.
While lying on the couch one day, dozing between the realms of consciousness and sleep, he felt from the corner of the room a disturbance and opened his eyes to find Katarina taking slow but swift steps toward the couch, the look on her face perturbed and all the more frightened.
“Nova?” the young woman asked, unaware that he was not asleep, therefore projecting her feelings into her voice. “Are you all right?”
“Just cold,” he mumbled, pulling the blanket higher up his chest.
“I don’t mean now. I mean…”
“You mean… what?”
When no response followed, he pushed himself into a sitting position, tightened his hold on the blanket, then threw his legs over the side of the couch. It was moments like these that made him tremble—when, during her quiet phases, Katarina seemed unable to speak.
“What?” Nova asked, gesturing her to settle down on the couch beside him. “What’s wrong, honey?”
“You were talking in your sleep last night.”
Okay, he thought, watching his wife intently as she seated herself next to him. I don’t see why that’s cause for concern.
“All right,” he said. “I don’t see why you’re nervous though.”
“You were talking to someone.”
“Like who?”
“I don’t know. You were just mumbling, although whoever it was upset you. You kept saying, ‘No, no. I don’t want to leave my wife. It’s too soon. It’s too soon. It…’”
Nova shivered.
A plague of doubt overwhelmed him.
Could what he feared have just happened no more than a night ago?
“Katarina,” he said, taking both her hands in his. “I have to tell you something.”
“All right,” she said. “It’s nothing bad, is it?”
“No… at least, I don’t think so.”
“All right.”
“My father once asked me the same thing. When I was little, I used to have what I thought were horrible nightmares about people dying, being kidnapped, murdered—all sorts of things. I swore I saw my parents being butchered by bandits, then being spread out along the road for the wild dogs and birds to eat, then saw them nearly take off with me in my cradle before the man I know as my father came along and scared the bandits away. I’d wake up screaming at night because of how much the dreams tortured me. One night, though, when I woke up from a dream so bad I had to crawl into bed next to my father, he asked me about my dreams and what I was seeing, how I was seeing them, that sort of thing. It only took him a few moments to conclude that I had the Sight.”
“Sight?” she frowned.
“It’s what seers have—what they use to predict the future. Most use scrying tools or crystals, but some have it naturally, without using tools.”
“Like magic?”
“Sort of, but as far as I know, I’ve never seen any magic, so I can’t be sure whether or not it really is that. The Sight is like… well… like looking into a mirror, but seeing something else—not your reflection of the room you’re in, but someone else and where they are. Understand?”
“Yes. I mean, I get what you’re saying, but how do you see visions?”
“Sometimes in my dreams, but most of the time they happen when I’m awake. My vision clouds over and I see someone doing something. Sometimes it can just be a lone figure too, or a location where something’s just about to happen.”
“Do the people speak to you?”
“Uh… no.” Nova reached back to rub his neck. The look in Katarina’s eyes led him to believe that she wasn’t sure about what he’d just told her. For that, he set an arm across
her back, pulled her close to his chest, then took a deep breath. “I don’t know what happened last night, honey. I guess I just talk in my sleep sometimes.”
“You weren’t having a vision last night?”
“No. I wasn’t. At least, not that I can recall.”
“All right.” She tightened her hold on his hands. “If you have something like that, though, tell me, please. I don’t want to be left in the dark about this.”
“I won’t, dear. Don’t worry.”
He kissed her cheek, drew her close, then took a deep breath.
He didn’t need visions of his own life to know that this could hurt his future.
The first dream came the night after he told Katarina about his gift.
In this dream—shrouded by film that appeared to be fog but glowed gold instead of white or blue—a boy no older than fourteen sat on a lone mattress in a small, dark room with his head hung low and his tattered, obviously-unkempt hair hanging in his face. Occasionally a large black door would open and a guard carrying food or water would enter and exchange the pail obviously-designed for bodily relief, but other than that, this young man bore little contact with humanity. His face—lit in the pale light streaming from a window hewn into the stone wall—was not revealed, but Nova could easily see tears falling onto the floor beneath him.
After waking from the dream drenched in sweat, Nova took a few deep breaths and looked out his bedroom window, toward the distant horizon and where, he knew, the ocean would be were one to walk or ride a horse for three or four days.
Where was this place, he wondered, that he’d seen? Had it been a vision, or was it just a trick of a dream bordering on precognition?
Of course it was a vision, he thought, turning his head to look back at his sleeping wife. I know it was.
In most instances, visions appeared much in the way of dreams, but held more physical essence than one would have ever experienced through a dream. In dreaming about this young man, he could feel the chill in the room—could touch the stone beneath his bare feet and sense the isolation within his chest. Everything—from the textures, to the sights, the sounds, to the light filtering into the room—felt as real as anything he could have ever experienced in the waking world. Those kinds of associations always set a vision apart from a dream.
I can’t tell her, he thought, forcing himself to even out ragged breathing. She’ll get scared.
The previous look of horror in his wife’s eyes had almost been enough to scare him out of explaining his gift, let alone recount one of his visions.
Then and there, he made a decision.
No matter what happened, he wouldn’t—and couldn’t—let a vision interfere with his life.
Until he knew more, he had not a thing to worry about.
If his gift gave him another glimpse of the boy, he would know that a link had been established. He would know that, somehow, someway, he was supposed to help the sad young man with the tattered black hair.
The second vision came the following afternoon, after he helped Ketrak shovel snow away from the door and passed out on the loveseat.
In this dream, in which he stood near the door of the structure and looked upon the very young man he had come to know as someone troubled, Nova saw the boy looking out the window that faced the courtyard of what appeared to be a set of grand grounds. Calculating red eyes watching a group of boys spar in the field below with training swords, rods and other wooden weapons, he seemed completely oblivious of the fact that Nova stood no more than a foot away. So close that he could feel the boy’s heat, Nova tried to reach out and touch him, but found that his hand slid through the young man’s back when he attempted such a feat. It wasn’t much of a surprise, considering he’d tried to interact with objects in his visions before, but he felt somewhat disappointed at the fact.
For a moment, he wondered just whether or not the young man would sense his presence and turn to look at him.
Shortly thereafter, the boy sighed, startling Nova out of his thoughts. The young man then turned to walk away from the window, but stopped upon noticing that he still held onto the stone windowsill with one weary hand.
It’s okay, Nova thought.
Why was this boy in this room? Who could he have been to deserve such a punishment, such isolation, such torture confined to the space of ten feet? Had he done something wrong, something to displease or offend someone, or had he committed a crime so horrible that even men who murdered would not have been thrown into such a small place? Where is he? Nova also thought, for in that moment his situation seemed all the more crucial, especially as when a second sigh passed from his lips it was even harsher than the one before.
Those thoughts, as warranted as they may have been, were lost when a pair of hands locked onto his shoulders and forced him from sleep.
Jarred from his vision, Nova flung himself forward, lashing out at whoever had touched him with balled fists.
“Nova!” the man gasped. “It’s okay! Calm down, clam down!”
“Ketrak,” he breathed, panting. “What’s wrong?”
“You were having a bad dream. You’re drenched in sweat.”
“I’m fine,” he sighed, prying his father-in-law’s hands from his sweat-drenched shirt. “Just having some weird dreams.”
“Katarina’s mentioned them. Well, the one, anyway.”
“Please don’t tell her about this one. Please. I don’t want her to worry.”
“I wouldn’t intentionally upset her, though I am concerned about what she told me. Apparently, someone in your dream was telling you to leave your wife.”
“She told me.”
“What do you think about that?”
“It makes me feel nervous. I mean… I’m trying not to let my gift interfere with my marriage, but… it… it just might.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I’ve been dreaming about a boy,” Nova said, “A boy locked in a tower. I think I’m supposed to help him.”
A month and three days passed without any further visions. Every night, he’d go to bed with Katarina and sleep peacefully until morning. When he’d rise, he’d help Ketrak with the chores or anything else he needed done. The help seemed to appreciate this greatly, for whenever they rose from their beds to attend to the chores of the day they would be mostly, if not completely done. It was for this reason that Nova found himself content in life, as it seemed that nothing threatened to dismantle his marriage.
Everything seemed to be normal—peaceful, even, to the point where he had not a worry in the world.
Then, out of the blue, the third and most starling vision came.
It happened on the night of one of the most devastating pre-spring thunderstorms Nova had ever seen.
In this dream, he lay in bed with his wife asleep next to him, while directly across from them a figure clouded in light so bright he could make out no discernible features stood in the corner, towering over everything else in the room. The air, alight with static, buzzed, and popped Nova’s ears, sending each and every hair on his body on end, while shadows swam across the figure’s surreal form like fish across the room, distorting the walls and rippling golden energy across the confined space. This sight, so surreal that Nova could hardly believe it, terrified him to no end, and disallowed any form of emotion.
Novalos, the creature of light and energy said, its voice so androgynous it made him tremble just by listening to it. Do you know who I am?
“Nuh-No,” Nova said, sitting up. “What are you?”
I am something who will help you in a great time of need, but not unless you help someone in theirs.
“Who?” Nova asked. “Who is—”
A flash of dark hair and red eyes entered his mind.
No.
It couldn’t be.
“Yuh-You mean thu-the young man?” he managed.
Yes. I speak of a young man named Odin, a boy with red eyes.
“I know who he is,” Nova said, “but… am I drea
ming, or am I having a vision?”
You are having neither, my friend. I am as real as your flesh and blood.
“What are you?”
That does not matter. What does is that someone is in grave danger—danger of collapsing in on himself. There will come a time when, after a most tragic event, this young man will need an unwavering spirit at his side. It is you, Novalos, who will be that friend.
“I can’t leave my wife. We just… we haven’t been—”
I will trust you to make that decision, but fear not, for whatever decision you make will guide you in the right direction.
Before Nova could begin to question the creature of light and shadow, it faded into the darkness, relinquishing hold of the physical world.
As quietly as he possibly could, he stumbled out of bed, rubbed his eyes and scratched his forearms, which were alight with static that made every hair on them stand on end.
Could this figure have had something to do with one of his gifts, or had he merely woken up, ready to leave bed, and have had one of his rare waking visions?
No, he thought. I didn’t have a vision.
This felt nothing like such. His eyes hadn’t clouded, the room hadn’t brightened, nor had it felt as though each and every sensation was magnified. No. This thing—this moment in time—could not have been a vision.
After adjusting his shirt across his chest, he walked out of the room and closed the door.
Downstairs, in the sitting room, Nova settled himself into the chair next to the fireplace and warmed his shaking body.
“It’ll be all right,” he whispered, rubbing his hands together. “You’re just scared.”
Scared couldn’t describe it, and while this feeling would pass, he didn’t think what he had experienced was fear—awe, possibly, but not fear. He’d felt such terrifying moments before, as a child ignorant of his abilities, and as a man whom had lost his father in the tragedy of a great failure of the heart. This felt nothing like that, and for those unsure thoughts, troubling ailments and clouds of doubt, he knew in his heart that this very surreal happening had not been a dream.