Brotherhood Saga 03: Death (3 page)

“Forever,” he whispered.

With a slow, deep breath, Odin looked up, at the horizon, then at what appeared to be moisture falling in the distance.

He
’d been wrong all along.

The clouds were nothing more than rain.

In the saf
ety of city hall, curled up in a chair with his faithful blanket around his shoulders, Odin watched the lightning in the distance grow to an escalating pitch until, at one point, the sparks across the sky turned pink.

On a normal, ordinary day, such a sight would have been beautiful—haunting, but beautiful
, like the sight of a thing that appeared long rotten rising from a shallow grave to breathe for another day. On a day like this, however, it seemed only to further secure the fact that he was all the more alone in the world.

You know,
his conscience whispered, stroking his collarbone and wrapping its fingers around his shoulders.
You could let them in.

Sure. It was perfectly reasonable to think that he could allow both Nova and Carmen into the room, maybe even Parfour, Ardut and the mage brothers in order to isolate his pain, bu
t what purpose would that serve other than to spread his misery?

“I can
’t give it to them,” he whispered. “I can’t.”

It seemed to be a tumor, this thing of his—growing, festering, rotting beneath the surface of his skull and slowly poisoning his bloodstream. He half expected to die from the feeling alone, such was the pain that seemed to flow throughout his body and spiraled into his chest. He wanted to scream, to cry and, most horribly, die, and while he knew such a thing would do nothing to solve his problem, he couldn
’t help but feel as though not existing would help ease the burden that life seemed to be imparting upon him.

It
’s the middle of the day,
he thought,
and I’m sitting in a dark room all by myself.

Some would have argued that isolation would do not
hing to better his problem—that given his nature, he would have done better being around a group of people, friends at the very least. The thought alone seemed to taunt him, like a bear encaged and forced to be put on public display where such things were no longer allowed to exist.

When a knock came at the door, Odin remained steadfast in his seat.

No matter the cause, no matter the need, he would not move from his place in his seat.

“Commander,” a voice said.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Sir Eternity has asked that you come eat dinner with him and Lady Delarosa.”

“Tell him I’m not feeling well.”

“He insists.”

Rather than risk making a fool of himself, Odin chose to remain silent and bridged the distance between him and the door. Once there, he inserted the key into the doorknob, sighed, then collapsed against the wall and slid into a sitting position.

There—on the floo
r, in no more than a pair of pants and with no shoes to adorn his feet—his emotions threatened to take hold and grind him into the dirt.

Everything will be fine,
he thought.
You just have to keep telling yourself that.

Would it, though?

In the end, he couldn’t—nor, he thought, wouldn’t—know.

Hunger drove him from his pursuit of a full night’s rest. Gnawing, roaring, clawing at him as though he were a hunk of fresh meat on a butcher’s grand block, he pushed himself from his place on the floor and unlocked the door without so much as a whisper under his breath.

Then and there, he stepped out into the hall, then into the waiting room, where he found Nova and Carmen sitting up whispering among themselves.

“Hey,” Odin said, careful to keep his voice lowered as to not disturb the men sleeping around them.

“Hey,” they both replied.

“Is there anything to eat around here?”

“We
’ve got biscuits,” Carmen said, lifting one of the small, bubble-shaped pieces of bread from a tray at her side. “Would you like one? Maybe two?”

“You
never did eat dinner,” Nova mumbled.

“I needed a while to myself,” Odin said, stepping forward to accept one of the biscuits Carmen offered.

“Did you get anything sorted out?”

“No.”

Sighing, all the more aware that what he had just spoken could have been the kiss of death to the entire morning, he shoved the piece of bread into his mouth, then accepted a second when Carmen pushed it forward. “Are you guys ok?” Odin asked.

“I
’m doing better,” Nova said. “It sucks, losing someone so close to you.”

“I
’m not sure what to feel,” Carmen shrugged, easing herself back in her seat. “I didn’t know the guy, but I hate seeing the two of you suffer.”

“We
’ll live, hon. Don’t worry.”

“Oh, I
’m not worried. I know the both of you are strong enough, but… well, when you lose someone, it’s hard, almost like the whole world’s up in arms.”

And ready to burn you alive.

What a perfect metaphor for such a simple thing.

Taking the unoccupied seat next to Nova as his own, Odin leaned against his friend
’s shoulder, then sighed when the man’s hand fell across his back.

As their heads touched, knocking together softly and w
ithout any ill intent, he couldn’t help but remember the old days—when, as a child, he had wandered long roads and wished without a thought in the world that the future would be grand and filled with nothing but good.

How ignorant was I?

To think that life would be grand, that nothing would come without consequence, that always things would be great, shining and beautiful—idealism could often be found within those young and without regret, in children and people who knew nothing of the world and the rules upon which they were hindered. Some could look to the sky and one day wish to fly, then find in ten year’s time that such a thing was not possible. Others, meanwhile, could dream of seeing beyond the hemisphere, toward the stars and just what lay within the abyss of darkness that seemed to shadow over them each and every night. Whatever way one sliced it, dreams were not always meant to come true, especially when they seemed too far off, and life could not always be perfect, even when molded in such concrete forms.

After taking but a moment to compose himself on his friend
’s shoulder, Odin leaned back, closed his eyes, then tilted his head up to the ceiling.

He couldn
’t help but wonder if life would return to normalcy—if, by the end of all this, he would be back in the king’s chamber, stroking his dogs and continuing his life as a humble servant.

The afternoon brought with it storm clouds.

Standing at the top of Dwaydor
’s highest wall and garbed beneath a cloak that veiled everything but the bottom of his face, Odin watched the distant horizon with a sense of trepidation he couldn’t help but feel in spite of all the silence around him. The thunder distant, the storm anything but a threat, it seemed as though summoned by a conjurer’s wild hand to serve only as a form of harassment to a heart that had not and probably would never recover.

Does it always do this,
he thought,
when a loved one dies?

A chain of lightning burst on the horizon and flowered across
the sky, snaking its vines through formations of clouds and lighting the distance.

In that moment—when the entire southern horizon seemed to be but one expanse of blue—
Odin expelled a held-in breath. Chest tight, breath slowly rasping in and out of his chest, he locked his hands around the railing and tried to keep himself under control.

At his sides, the guards walked back and forth, either completely oblivious to his presence or ignorant at the least. They knew of his purpose on the walls—knew that, in spite of his attire, he was, in fact, the former commander of the Ornalan military—but why they hadn
’t stopped to acknowledge him was beyond his recollection. Maybe they just had nothing to say—or, maybe, they just didn’t want to speak for fear that, should their tongues slip, and should their consciences tremble, they may very well spew venom in the eyes of a child who could easily go blind for the rest of his life.

In the
moments that occurred after his initial thought, he couldn’t help but see that his perception of the world had been altered—skewed, distorted, made to look as though only he suffered and that everyone else was trivial. An Elf may have died, and a mighty force may have been put to rest by a weapon that could only be described as monstrous and uncanny, but that did not mean the world wept for him: that the rain, though slowly rolling in the distance, had once again returned to mourn.

“You
’re such an idiot,” he whispered. “Such a stupid, stupid fucking idiot.”

As his hands tightened around the railing, the wood whi
spering of splinters that could embed themselves within his skin, tears began to drop from his face and down onto his hands, staining his skin and the wood dark brown. Such open displays of emotion had become casual and expected from him, considering the circumstances, but each and every time that horrible thing began to stir in his chest, a certain form of weakness began to overwhelm his conscience, one of which seemed to impact his entire being and hurl him from his current perspective on the world.

How can I continue without you?

Who would be there when he messed up—when, out of the blue, a problem fell into his lap and something needed to be done? Who would stand to be his council, sit to be his companion or rest to be his salvation; and who, by God, the Gods or nothing, would sit up late at night to watch over his dreams and fears, his hopes and aspirations, his future and destiny?

When yet more tears came, and as the rain began to fall and mask his tears away from any wandering eyes, the realization struck him so hard he felt as though he could not
, nor ever would, go on.

No one would watch over him.

From here on out, he was on his own.

There was nothing he could do.

“You
’re soaked,” Carmen said.

Odin said nothing.

Standing in the threshold, allowing the rain to fall around him without any rage, roar or protest, he watched the little creature that seemed too willing to care for his heart and tried to discern the emotion that lay on her face.

This is Carmen,
his conscience whispered.
The Drake Slayer of Ehknac.

He knew there was nothing to
worry about. She was a friend—a person whom he could trust—but looking upon her in the strange half-light that fell from the open doorway made him feel as though nails were being drawn along a chalkboard. A whisper ran along his spine, a tremble echoed throughout his frame and a horrible notion that could not be described struck a chord in his heart and vibrated into his brain.

Such an ugly sound,
he thought,
for such a noble purpose.

“Odin,” the Dwarf said, ext
ending her word as though he were incapable of hearing two-word syllables. “Are you all right?”

“I
’m… fine. Why?”

“You
’re just standing there, in the rain.”

It took him but a moment to realize tha
t he’d been standing in the storm. His composure was so shaken by the matter that when he did step into city hall, only to track in with him a sopping load of clothes, he immediately began to shiver and started to disrobe shortly thereafter.

“Something
’s wrong,” Carmen frowned. “Tell me.”

“I
’m fine.”

“No you
’re not.”

Yes I am.

When he’d stripped down to nothing but his underwear and stood directly before the Dwarf, he shook his head, tossed his hair back over his shoulders, then arched his back, shivering as a cold gust of air shifted through the barely-open doorway.

“Odin,” Nova said, stepping from the side hall and approaching him from across the room. “You
’re—“

“Soaked,” Carmen said, cutting Nova off before he could finish. “Just like I said he was.”

“I’m fine,” Odin sighed, gathering his clothes up into his arms. “Please, guys—just give me a moment.”

“
You shouldn’t have been out there by yourself.”

“So now I can
’t even have a moment alone?”

“I never said—“

“You don’t have to say it, Carmen. I already know.”

“Odin,” Nova said, extending his arm as he began to cross the room. “Come on, buddy.”

“Leave me alone, Nova.”

“But—“

“But nothing!”

With one simple thrust of his shoulder, he knocked his friend aside and sent him stumbling into the wall.