Brotherhood Saga 03: Death (6 page)

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.”

W
ho 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 c
ould 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 d
irectly, 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 enou
gh, he could tear his hair from his scalp.

A strand of purple shrouded his vision.

He blinked.

Directly before his face
, shielding the vision in his right eye, was the strand of hair Ardut had bonded to his head, fresh from his father’s scalp.

You wouldn
’t want this,
he thought.
You wouldn’t want any of this.

Miko would have wanted him to continue on—to fight the pain regardless of how supreme it was and deny his body the emotions that could only be summoned from the mind.
Human emotions,
he would have said,
will only make you vulnerable in a state where you cannot protect yourself.

Though he knew he was already in such a state, he couldn
’t help but feel as though he could protect himself just fine.

“Odin,” Parfour said, setting a hand on his back.

As though instinctively, the muscles in his shoulders tensed. Odin imagined, had he looked up, he would have seen a look of indecision within Parfour’s pale eyes.

Go ahead,
he thought, daring himself to turn his head up and look at the young man who sat beside him.
He’s not going to hurt you.

No words could bring upon him bodily harm—stick and stones maybe, but not words alone. The sooner he got that through his head, the sooner he could proceed with his life and continue on in the quest for sanity.

After turning his head up and staring directly into the boy’s pale, nearly-golden eyes, Odin reached out, clasped Parfour’s arms, then bowed his head.

“I don
’t know what to do,” he whispered, thankful in that moment that they were the only two in the room. “I don’t know what to do, Parfour. I feel like I’m spiraling out of control.”

“It
’s natural, Odin.”

“Is it natural to feel like I could kill someone?”

Parfour had no reply.

There,
his conscience whispered.
You’ve done it.

The hammer on the nail, the strike to the face, the icing on the cake and the grand, lucky cherry on top—he couldn
’t have done any more to further destroy the situation.

“I
don’t know what I’m saying,” Odin said, turning his head up once more to look into his friend’s face.

“First of all,” Parfour said, reaching up to brush a
strand of hair out of Odin’s face, “you’re being too hard on yourself.”

“Second of all,” Odin replied, “I have to be.”

“Why?”

“Because I
’m a champion.”

“Champions aren
’t allowed to be weak?”

Champions aren
’t allowed to be anything but strong.

Odin stood and started for the door.

“Where are you going?” the acolyte asked.

“Outside,” Odin replied.

“It’s cold out there.”

He chose not to reply.

Instead, he made his way out and into the biting-cold air.

Odin walked what seemed like the entirety of the town until he came to what appeared to be a graveyard. Bleak, cold, and anything but welcoming, he stumbled into the outer grounds and took extra care not to get too close to any of the gravestones, if only out of respect for those long-departed.

I can never visit you,
he thought,
even if I wanted to.

That form o
f final rights should have brought peace to his mind, for there could be great and distinct argument that any scattered upon the wind could be seen and witnessed anywhere. Upon the breeze, within the woods, in the ocean and on the very ground he walked upon—the possibility of visitation was endless, if only he allowed them to be. Despite that, however, comfort did not come easily. He imagined that should he ever want to counsel his father’s passing, and had he the inclination to go where his final remains had been scattered, he’d have to return to Dwaydor, if only by principal.

Crouching down, he brushed a strand of cobwebs from an old, whitewashed grave and tried to read the text inscribe
d into it.

“Someday,” he whispered, “I
’ll do something like this for you.”

Where he would go from this point was beyond him. While his thoughts led him toward the castle, his heart dr
ew him to the Abroen—where, most likely, he would attempt to steal a book and commit treason that could possibly sentence him to life in prison.

Bowing his head, Odin closed his eyes.

A wisp of wind came up, shifting the hair across his face.

Father,
he thought.
Please… if you can hear me, wherever you are… give me a sign.

“Any sign.”

A shiver ran up his spine.

Odin tilted his head up and raised his eyes.

Though he saw nothing in the near distance, he couldn’t help but feel as though he’d just been delivered what he’d asked for.

The night brought with it a chilling sense of reality that he could hardly begin to imagine.

Standing in the office with the door locked and a quilt about his shoulders, there should have been nothing to disturb him on this night cold a
nd without regret. Contrary to that, something seemed amiss—a plaintive sense of normalcy in the air. As the moments continued on, and as his sense of reality began to distort even further, Odin wandered to the window to examine what he could only begin to imagine was a glowing ball of light.

At first unsure
whether or not what he was seeing was actually real, then baffled at the possibility that such a thing could be occurring, he trained his eyes on the distant walls across the street and toward an alleyway that lay shadowed by two outcropping roofs. The moon bright, its light all but present, there should have been nothing to hinder the progress of the thing that made its way along the alleyway and toward the side of the street, but it seemed as though the glowing ball of light was limited to the shadows and all but vulnerable to any source of light.

What in the world?
he thought.

His first inclination led him to believe that this thing—this
glowing ball of light—
had to be conjured by a mage, though where that mage was could be anyone’s guess. When the orb tilted, spun, then began to flicker as though a pale lamp disturbed by a passing figure, the muscles in Odin’s face began to pull his lips into a frown as the construct slowly began to descend to the ground.

One moment
it was hovering perfectly above the line of dirt on the side of the road. A short breath later, it collapsed, then lay blinking before it disappeared entirely.

“Father?” he asked.

The word a mere whisper on his lips, the idea more than present in his mind, he pushed his arm forward, then channeled his will through the length of his appendage and toward the digits that lined his hand.

Outside, the construct once more burst into light.

“Is this you?” he asked, watching as the thing flickered in the alleyway first by bobbing up and down, then shaking back and forth as though signifying a no.

If not his father, then just what could this thing be? He
’d read of such superstitions—heard that, on long, lonely nights, wisps would come and mark their passage amongst the world: signifying that there was, in essence, a life after death. The fact that this thing reacted to his magic once seemingly ‘dead’ led him to believe that it was not, in fact, one of the fabled apparitions, though he couldn’t necessarily be sure of that matter.

If his father had wanted to speak to him from beyond death, would he not have channeled something that would have resembled his intuitive color?

Maybe colors don’t matter on the other side,
Odin thought.

Maybe, possibly, colors became distorted—lightened, darkened, then adorned with a glow that made them appear to be white and an
ything but in the realm of the living.

Not sure what to think about the thing currently before him, Odin lowered his arm,
set it at his side, and waited.

For several long, undeterminable moments, he wa
tched the thing as though his life had no other purpose.

His eyes adjusted to the faint moonlight penetrating the outside world.

A breath whispered from his lips.

Slowly, and with grace he felt incapable of having in that particular moment, he reached forward and pressed his hand to the pane of glass.

Instantaneously, fog shadowed the windowpane.

“Father,” he whispered. “If this is you, please… let me know that you
’re here.”

Let me know that you
’re watching out for me.

It took but a moment for Odin to realize that the room had taken on a horrible chill.

He turned his head up and looked at the apparition floating across the road.

A shiver ran down his spine, eclipsed at the center of his back, then shot off the tip of his tailbone.

He dropped to his knees.

His breath caught in his chest.

A pain so unbearable he felt as though it would split his head in two flowered at the front of his vision.