Brotherhood Saga 03: Death (10 page)

Would an Elf come back
with him if he was so inclined to ask?

No. Of course not.

Elves were of solitary nature. If Miko had been any indication—and surely, Odin thought, he had to have been—then each and every creature fair and of the highest regard often preferred silence and the kindness of only occasional strangers. Though one could plainly argue that Miko was tainted and therefor expelled from both everyday Elven society and habit, Odin couldn’t help but base his preconceived notions around the fairer race on his now-fallen friend, especially when it came to whether or not he could have one return to the country with him were his conscience to fall.

Then again, what was he thinking? He was going to the Elven capital to steal a book to try and raise his dead father.

You can’t think about that,
he thought, the words whispering under his breath as his conscience began to falter.
You can’t… not now, not here of all places.

All he needed was to have an emotional meltdown here in a public place. Surely someone would come if he screamed, wouldn
’t they?

Pushing himself forward, then balancing
himself in an awkward, upright position, he trained his eyes to the far window and tried not to lose himself in the beauty of the many fountains surrounding the inn.

He could live here the rest of his life, he imagined, had he a choice.

Sadly, and without regret, he had none of that.

Closing his eyes, Odin bowed his head and tried his hardest not to cry.

It was moments like these, next to empty windows, that he missed the man who’d called him son the most.

He pulled himself from bed in the early hours of the evening and trotted downstairs in full garbed attire. With plans to order a glass of wine in the hopes of developing a buzz that would hopefully allow him to sleep, he buckled his swords at his sides and made his way down the stairs, his breath caught within his throat and his nerves all but fried from the amount of attention seemingly placed upon him.

It
’s all right,
he thought, taking a slow, deep breath.
You’re just in a bar. Nothing’s going to happen to you.

Still, being in such a personal position of power—of, in this case, shame—offered disadvantages that he couldn
’t afford to have.

Seating
himself at the end of the bar where he could afford himself the luxury of three empty stools between him and his fellow man, he called the bartender over with a simple wave of his hand and sighed when the man set a shot glass filled with what appeared to be an amber-looking liquid before them.

“You
’re new here,” the young, olive-skinned man said, eyeing him up and down as Odin took the shot and set it back down on the bar. “What brings you to Sylina?”

“A s
top.”

“For what?”

Peace,
Odin thought.
Silence.

“Just to rest for a while,” Odin
replied, nodding when the bartender pulled the glass away.

“What can I get for you?”

“Wine, if you have it.”

“Red or white?”

“Red.”

While the man turned and pulled from the shelf a bottle capped but not compl
etely full, Odin reached up to rub the bridge of his nose, unsure about the talkative man before him and the incessant looks he seemed to be giving regardless of his darkened visage. Perhaps he was just being cautious, maybe even a bit paranoid, but regardless, the looks didn’t help to ease his worries.

“Here you are,” the
bartender said, setting a glass full of brimming, red wine before him.

“Thank you.”

“Can I ask where you’re from?”

“Ornala,” he said, cursing himself shortly after when he realized the severity of his words.

“Ornala,” the man said, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back as if to examine him. “Say… you wouldn’t happen to be anyone important, would you?”

“Would you believe me if I told you no?”

“Probably not,” the man laughed, “but no matter. Kick your feet up. No matter who you are, there’s nothing to be ashamed of here.”

“I
’m well aware of that.”

“What I meant,” the young man said, leaning forward until they were close enough for their noses to touch, “is to take your hood off.”

“Do I have to?”

“It
’d make me more comfortable if I could see who I was looking at.”

Odin swallowed the lump in his throat.

No,
he thought,
he couldn’t be.

No matter what he thought or wanted to believe, the smile never left the man
’s face, nor did he erase the distance between the two of them in the moments following his silence.

“You don
’t have to say anything,” the man whispered, reaching across the bar to press his hand against Odin’s shoulder. “You can go back up to your room and I can follow you, knock on the door once and then twice. You’ll know who I am.”

“There
’s no need for that.”

“I
’m not asking you to pay me.”

“I never said—“

“There’s nothing to be nervous about. Come on—just one night, you and me. What could it hurt?”

“I
’m not looking for someone to sleep with,” Odim mumbled, leaning back just far enough so he could lift his glass and sip his wine.

“No one is when they come in here, but that doesn
’t mean you can’t have a little fun.”

“I
’m fine,” Odin said. “Please… just… don’t—“

Don
’t what?
his conscience whispered.
Admit that maybe one torrid night would ease your mind and settle your spirits?

He could hardly say that one night alone and intimate with someone would ease his mind, his troubled spirit or his weary, disengaged soul. For what it was worth, one could easily say that one moment could replace another—that, given the situation, he could possibly overwhelm himself in another person in order to free himself from the perpetual darkness that seemed to rule over his soul.

Looking into the young man’s eyes, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of longing and need rise up within his chest, pushing all other inhibitions away from him.

You can
’t sleep with someone who works in a bar,
he thought, trembling, his arm shaking enough to vibrate the area of the bar before him.
For all you know, he could have slept with a dozen other men before you.

Did it matter, really, or was he just being absurd—cautious, in a sense, for his own human desires?

“Like I said,” the young man replied, leaning forward once more to separate the distance between them. “I can be up there and back in a flash.”

“There
’s no need for this,” Odin said, rising. “Please, just leave me alone.”

“I know what you want,” the young man whispered. “I can see it in your eyes.”

“You can’t see my eyes.”

“It doesn
’t matter. I can still tell when someone’s so lost within their head that they need a moment to take it all away.”

Odin shook his head.

When he turned and made his way back toward the stairway, he felt no regret for having not paid for the shot or half-empty glass of wine.

As the rain came down that night in sheets that seemed to shadow not only the city and stars, but his thoughts, feelings and emotions about life, Odin drew the sheets and blankets around him and tried desperately to contain the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. Fingers tightened almost painfully, joints ready to fire from their prisons and ricochet off the walls, he rolled onto his back and allowed himself to seemingly collapse within the worn-out mattress and stared at the woodwork ceiling above him.

For what seemed like the worst possible moment of his life, he considered what could have been the most carefully-unguarded thing he had ever felt.

No more than a few moments ago, he had been propositioned by someone of the same sex.

Does this really mean what I think it does,
he thought.

No—it didn
’t, not necessarily. Just because he’d never had a fleeting thought about another woman did not mean that he was, in fact, queer, nor did it mean that he desired anything more than companionship from a fellow human being.

You wanted to,
his conscience whispered, stroking his collarbone with one dainty, sharp nail.
You know you did.

“So what?” he whispered. “So what if I wanted
someone
for the first time in my life!”

Throwing himself forward, he reached up, tugged at his hair, then tossed his head back and forth as if to shake from his body the spirit of evil that
wanted to overtake him.

With fresh tears burning down his face and rivers of unease trickling throughout his body, he wrapped his arms around himself and began to rock back and forth atop the mattress. First forward, then back, then side to side, he resembled what could have been a child troubled by something he could not underst
and. Such was his emotions in that moment he felt just like that—like a child, strangled by doubt and unable to wrap his head around the situation at hand.

A knock came at the door.

Odin froze.

Two more followed shortly after.

You can go back up to your room and I can follow you.

To think that he was even considering sleeping with such an openly-promiscuous person was almost impossible—outrageous, even, for he
’d never considered himself among such lowlife men and creatures of lust and need.

I can knock once, then twice. You’ll know it’s me.

Closing his eyes, Odin leaned back and reached up to brush his hair from his eyes.

Didn
’t everyone need someone eventually, at least once in their life?

“Sir,” the voice at the door said.

“Go away,” Odin replied, pulling the blankets tighter around him.

The doorknob clicked.

Odin threw himself from bed and drew his sword just as the door open to spill light into the room.

The bartender stood in the threshold with his arms raised and his hands at the side of his head, face unsure and startled.

“I said to leave me alone,” Odin said, training the sword on the young man as carefully and steadily as possible.

“You
’re not decent, sir.”

“I was trying to sleep,
” he replied, only briefly considering the fact that he wore sleeping trousers and an open, button-up shirt.

“Can I say something without you threatening to stab me in the heart?”

“Go ahead. Just don’t try anything funny.”

“You
’re the loneliest person I’ve ever seen in my entire life.”

“You think that
’s funny?” Odin laughed. “You really think it is?”

“I never said it was funny,” the bartender said, closing the door behind him. “What
’s happened to you that you don’t have an ounce of happiness at all?”

“You really want to know?” Odin asked,
reaching up to pull the two sides of his shirt together.

“I was enjoying the view.”

Odin growled under his breath.

The bartender offered a smile and crossed his arms over his c
hest. “Seriously, though,” the man said. “What happened?”

“My father just died.”

“No shit?” the man asked, seating himself in the armchair at the side of the room. “Damn. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.
So you can see why I’m in no mood to grow attached to someone who I’ll likely leave behind anyway.”

“Come here.

“No.”

“I just want to see your face, maybe even your eyes.”

“No one wants to see my eyes.”

“No?” the young man asked. “I do.”

I do.

What could have been said to open a kingdom, ensnared in vines and snarled in iron—to have pressed within its lock a key made of silver with flowers and insects—and what, he questioned, could have perpetuated a need so deep that in this kingdom, so fresh with nothing, a seed
that could bloom without water and nurture? It seemed, without a common doubt, that such things were impossible—that life, without care, was not allowed to flourish, for things on two legs could not survive on their own once free and born from the womb—but in that moment, cold and alone in a room with another man, that kingdom seemed open, reigned by not only a benevolent benefactor, but sheltered by animals of the utmost variety.

“You
’re serious,” Odin said. “Aren’t you?”

“Of course I am,” the young man said.