Brotherhood Saga 03: Death (2 page)

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 refu
ge 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.

M
uch 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 bodi
es 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 firs
t 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,” Ickla
rd 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.