The Brotherhood: Blood (61 page)

Muttering something under his breath, Nova stood and ran a hand through his hair. He waited for Odin to rise—keeping a hand on his head, as if the request had frustrated him to no end—before he pushed the door opened and slid out into the white night.

Nova nodded, but leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. His expression, though harsh, had lightened, as if he’d realized his nature and had decided to correct it.

Taking a few deep breaths to calm himself down, Odin set his hands at his sides, but dare not release the curl on his fists for fear that the aggression would only channel back into his head.

“You see what I mean, bud? Just because a man can keep his emotions bottled up for months on end doesn’t mean he won’t cave when he has the chance to release some strain.”

“Why haven’t you done anything then? Why haven’t you tried to find a woman to—”

“That’s different. I’m married.”

“It’s no different, Nova! Just because you’re married doesn’t mean you can’t go find a whore and bring her back here, and just because he saved the mayor’s daughter doesn’t mean he has the right to rape her!”

“It’s
rape.
If he goes up there, he’ll be
raping
her.”

After a moment of watching his friend and trying to figure out just what to do, Odin sighed, ready to go back into the cottage and try and go back to sleep.

It isn’t worth it,
he thought, brushing past Nova and stepping forward.
It isn’t—

“Odin.”

Odin stopped, hand circled around the doorknob.

“I don’t know what else to tell you,” Nova continued. “I know this bothers you, because it bothers me too, but we can’t control what he wants to do.”

Before he could push the door open, Nova grabbed his shoulders and pulled him back slightly, just enough so Odin would release his hold on the doorknob.

For the next several days, a lingering sense of dread hung over Odin’s head like a dark storm. He stayed in the cottage most of this time, reading and losing himself in fictional narratives or historical accuracies in the hopes that the storm would finally pass. The birds, he knew, could shake the storm, could muster the urge, could dissuade the darkness, and the wings upon which they flew could guide the world. For that, he knew, things should be perfectly fine—that no matter how horrible his situation and feelings seemed to be, they would simply be carried away on the wings of creatures loved and holy.

However, when his feelings did not pass—when his insecurities became holes in his heart and threatened to swallow him whole—he stood from his place on the floor and almost cast the book against the wall, which would’ve surely broken it.

I can’t.

The leather-bound tome had been included in the pack that Daughtry had especially arranged for him. Along with handwritten texts about some of the lesser-known places in the world, it also contained short tales of men in armor who saved villages from peril or maidens from monsters. Such a gift couldn’t be wasted, nor abused during a moment of passion.

Taking a moment to allow the knot of rage in his chest to loosen, Odin looked out the window and stared at the barrier that lay no more than a dozen feet away. Its magical surface slid and crawled with hidden entities—dragons made of snow and air, spiders created from ripples and whorls, men dragging women from their homes and into back alleys.

No matter how hard he tried—no matter how much he attempted to force his conscience into higher, more pleasant places—all he could see was the Elf, naked, poised over the trembling virgin not ready to have one of her most important things ripped away from her. Would she be afraid, he wondered, as the Elf lingered before her, member taut and heavy, or would she simply give in, for she knew she was nothing more than a fair game to a man whom had saved her life? She, the beauty; he, the beast—a crime of passion, a moment of lust, an equinox of envy and a constellation of love: these were the things that this could be described, that could be compared, that could be spoken off, but would they ever really relate to the end?

In thinking of such things and just how much they related to his life as a whole, Odin began to wonder.
Had
Nova been right in his assessment of the situation?
Was
it right for a man who’d saved a maiden to take her back to his room and do any and everything he wanted to her? Because if it was, and if that law of anarchy really did exist, Odin didn’t think he wanted any part of it.

I don’t have to be like that,
he thought, crossing his arms over his chest.
I don’t have to do those kinds of things.

He could be a good man, a good squire, a good
knight.
He could ride upon his horse of darkest blacks and make his way across the land, saving any and all who needed his help, and by his sword he could slay those who meant harm to those innocent and pure. He need not ever commit an act of sin, of violence, of terrible greed, and he need not ever speak or think of such things, as in that regard he could be the best man he could be—a man whom, by all definitions, was a hero in every essence of the word.

“No,” he said, but his thoughts betrayed him otherwise. He
had
thought of it, as it had been on his mind more than a few times, but just because Nova had brought it up didn’t mean he had to admit it. “I haven’t.”

Odin nodded, stepped forward, and wrapped his arms around his friend’s chest. “Thank you,” he whispered. “I don’t know what I’d do if I only had him to talk to.”

“You’d talk to him and only him,” Nova said, setting his hands on Odin’s shoulders. “Think about what I said though, all right? Do it for me. Please?”

“I will,” he sighed. “Don’t worry.”

That night, Odin opened his eyes to see Miko garbing himself in his black cloak. Oblivious to his actions and focused on the current task at hand, the Elf continued to dress, snapping the buttons up his torso and pulling his gloves over his hands. It seemed anything but impractical, the thing he was doing, and it seemed that at any moment he would simply turn and leave without thinking on the matters beforehand. His goal was set, his eyes locked, his target in sight. For one to think he may possibly turn around without intervention would have been madness itself. In that moment, however, Odin felt it his duty to say something—if not for the Elf, for himself, for if he didn’t then surely he would be scarred for life.

“Sir,” he said, raising his head from its place atop his pillow.

Miko turned to face him. “Yes?” he asked.

Though he could not see the creature’s face, he sensed a disturbance there—a tremble, possibly, within his voice, weakened to the point of where the deep baritone sounded no more than a child’s tenor. For that, it seemed, his purpose had been meant.

I did it,
he thought, pleased, but not yet willing to collect his reward.
I actually made him think.

“You’re going,” he said, sinking his teeth into his lower lip. “Aren’t you?”

They exchanged gazes for several long moments—Odin’s direct, the Elf’s darkened and shrouded over. That, however, did not matter, because in his heart and mind Odin could feel just what it was the Elf was doing. An eye, clever and docile, traced his body, from his shrouded waist to his long-sleeved shirt, producing the sensation of hundreds of miniature bugs crawling across his skin. Some bit, causing gooseflesh, while others simply began to dig in and force themselves into his bloodstream, in turn causing an unease so deep and horrible it seemed at any moment his heart would explode out of his chest.

Come on,
he thought.
Let what I said have affected you.

The sigh that escaped the Elf’s lips instilled the revelation that Miko
did,
in fact, realize his intentions and just how wrong they were. But unlike what Odin expected, and contrary to his beliefs, Miko continued to dress, only further loosening the restraints he’d kept for so long.

“Why would you give in like that?” Odin asked, standing, wanting to go to his master’s side but unsure how he would react. “Why would you just let everything you told me go?”

“Even I have weaknesses.”

“But you don’t
have
to have them.”

“You have to realize, Odin, that all men experience urges that they cannot simply shrug off. When given the option to release that urge, it’s better to let it go than to keep it locked inside.”