Brotherhood Saga 03: Death (5 page)

“Why couldn
’t it have been with me?” he whispered. “Why could you have abandoned me?”

Had his true, biological father been selfish, or had he simply been afraid for his life in the face of everything it was that controlled him so?

Without the knowledge that would likely save him from a perpetually-downward spiral of grief and madness, Odin could do little more than think about the specifics of how he had come to be conceived and just how his life could have played out had Miko cared for him and not given him to the man who had, in time, become very much like his father. He knew already that his eyes were from his Drow blood, as little and scant as it was, and his skin and lack of body the Elven part of his existence. His mother, though—he knew little of her, though guessed that she had bestowed upon him his handsome cheekbones and the slight softness of his eyes.

Miko had been such an
extraordinary creature. How could Odin even think to compare himself to the Elf?

I
’m part of him,
he thought.
At least, I was.

“And am.”

Odin circled his fingers into his palm and closed his eyes.

Though Miko was gone, that didn
’t mean he couldn’t continue on with his life.

He would have to try, if only because he knew he could do nothing more than that.

When he returned to city hall later that night, he refrained from retreating into his person
al office and instead chose to eat with Nova, Carmen and the rest of the men who’d stayed behind to protect Dwaydor. Their meal grand, their drinks aplenty, Odin ate until he felt as though he could eat no more, then lay on the floor and stared at the ceiling with his arm over his brow and his eyes crossing from the amount of pale light streaming through the windows. It could very well have been compared to a moment of peace that he otherwise probably would never have had, though in the current frame of things, he couldn’t help but wonder how long it would last.

Likely
the result of alcohol—used both as a depressant and a way to ease a troubled soul—he didn’t expect the feeling to last much longer, less the rest of the night.

“Odin,” Carmen s
aid, crouching down next to and poking him with an index finger. “Are you all right?”

“I
’m fine,” Odin said. “Better than I have been.”

“That
’s good to hear.”

“Carmen. Can I ask you something, if it isn
’t too personal?”

“Yeah.”

“What did you do when your family died?”

“Other than kill the drake?” the Dwarf asked. “Bore it.”

“Bore it?”

“There
’s little else you can do when you know in your heart and soul that you’ve already done all you can to erase whatever it was that’s caused you so much grief.”

“That
’s the thing,” he said. “I
haven’t
done anything to avenge Miko’s death.”

“You will, in time.
For now though, just know that you did all you could to help him in his final moments.”

“I tried.”

“I know you did, honey.”

Leaning forward, she pressed her lips to his cheek for a single, short kiss, then strode across the room, where she returned to her place amongst a group of men who sat flipping pieces of copper into shot glasses, then downing t
hem shortly thereafter.

Pushing himself forward, if only to allow himself a better vantage of the ro
om, Odin clasped his hands in his lap, then leaned back against a chair, unable to contain the slight sigh that whispered from between his lips.

You
’ll heal, in time.

How soon was soon
?

Having no way to know, he stood, brushed the slight amount of dirt off his pants, then made his way toward his room.

There was nothing he could do now.

He had to wait, plan, and try to move forward in his life.

It came to him in a dream filled with darkness and un
bearable agony. The face of his dead father distorted, the visage of a creature rotten and filled with worms present, it shambled across the scope of his vision and thrust itself upon him in the perpetual darkness that filled the surface of his eyes.

Kill me,
the thing said, so much like the flesh summon had once upon a time.
I am nothing.

Nothing—the word, so fine and simple, held a notion that could have been compared to
something. In a sense, the very creature that looked to be the rotten image of his Elven father referred to itself in a way that could have reduced it to a simple amount of air, had it not a conscious form that carried itself across the shadowy landscape. That alone forced Odin to realize that, as the thing locked its hands around his wrist, he really was dealing with something of the real world, so in his dream, he pushed it back a few steps and watched as it attempted to come back forward.

Arms spread, mouth open, teeth destroyed and gums severed to harsh, jagged points
blackened and curled around bone yellow and filled with pits—it appeared to be a beggar in the streets searching for food, something not often seen in Ornala but always elsewhere. As it approached, and as its presence began to mark itself forward, Odin took into consideration the fact that this thing could only be his father due to the purple sheen in its hair and the structure in its face. Eyes hollow, much like they had been in its previous life, and cheekbones high, even the rotting, hanging flesh did little to distort the very creature that had once looked upon him as a mentor and a father.

‘
What did I do to you?’ he whispered, tugging at his hair as he took a few steps back. ‘What could I have possibly done to do such a thing?’

The book,
the creature whispered.
You took the book.

The moment after the flesh summon said those words, Odin opened his eyes.

Alone, in the darkened space within the locked office, he couldn’t resist the urge to cry as tears spilled from his eyes and into his ears.

What… how?

Had he, like he so vividly imagined, brought his father back from the dead, only to isolate him within a carapace of dead flesh?

No.

It couldn’t be.

He couldn
’t, nor would ever resort to using such tactics to bring a dead creature back to life.

You could be right,
his conscience whispered, pressing down atop his chest like a long lost lover freshly united with its soul mate.
You could very well do the thing that others have failed.

He could never do something like that—could never, in a hundred or thousand years, find a book that could teach him the art of summon
ing something dead back to life.

“Father,” Odin whispered, extending his hand toward the ceiling. “Can you give me a sign?”

No sign was likely to come. This he already knew, as things usually never played into his advantage even when he asked or wanted them to. He’d been lucky to survive the first wave of enemies that had come his way, but to outlast what surely could have been a long-lasting war? That in itself was a miracle.

No longer sure whether or n
ot he would be able to sleep, Odin rose, wrapped his blanket around him, then made his way to the window, where he watched as outside clouds shadowed the moon and forever darkened the landscape.

It seemed, in that moment, that everything would go dark—that inside, the candle
s on their last whispers would finish burning and the melted wax would no longer work.

His breath caught in his throat.

His heart seized within his chest.

In but a heartbeat, he thought he
would die from lack of oxygen.

Come on, Odin. Get a hold of yourself.

With that, he expelled the breath trapped within his throat and took another to replace it.

If he chose to go to bed now, would he surely fall asleep?

Not able to know unless he tried, Odin crossed the room, then settled himself back down beside his swords.

When he closed his eyes, they began to hum, the sound restful, comforting music to his ears.

“I had a bad dream last night,” Odin said.

“You did?” Nova asked.

“Yeah. I did.”

Around the table within the office, Odin sipped tea and tried to keep his eyes from wandering across the room and away from his friend’s face. It seemed that any time he tried to do such a thing his gaze would falter—first, he noticed, to Nova’s hands, then to the ornate table that bridged the distant between them like some great path taken only by travelers.

You already mentioned it,
his conscience said.
Now you have to say something.

That wasn
’t necessarily true. Should he decide
not
to say anything, he could simply shrug it off by saying he had relived the final moments of Miko’s death, the Elf in his arms and his blood snaking through his fingers. He didn’t have to elaborate on the fact that yes, he did have a bad dream last night, but no, he had not dreamt of Miko’s death, but his rebirth as something horrible.

Sighing, Odin wrapped his hands around his warm cup and turn
ed his attention directly to Nova.

When their gazes met, Odin thought he saw a glimmer of unease in Nova
’s amber eyes.

“You ok?” Odin asked.

“I’m fine,” Nova said, the frown on his face only continuing to deepen as the moments went on. “I’m just wondering if you’re all right.”

“I
’m fine.”

“Is this the first nightmare you
’ve had since it happened?”

“
I think so.”

Truth be told, he couldn
’t remember, and even if he could, he wouldn’t have wanted to. Who wished upon themselves horrors of dreams willingly and without respect, to cast shades of darkness across windows that lay open to allow light inside? Who, by any depth of knowledge, wanted to relive things that terrified them within their most vulnerable of moments?

I sure don
’t.

With a brief sigh, Odin bowed his head, sipped his tea, then stared at the table before him, no longer sure what to expect from life or just how he w
as supposed to deal with it.

You would never do such a thing,
he thought, taking slow breaths as a hand fell upon his shoulder and instantaneously forced his attention back up and at Nova, who had since rounded the table to stand at his side.
You know you wouldn’t.

“Even if I wanted to,” he whispered.

“Sorry?” Nova asked.

Odin shook his head.

After finishing his tea, he stood, made his way toward the expanse of windows at the far side of the room, then crossed his arms over his chest.

A flower of doubt began to bloom within his mind.

Would he ever resort to such a thing, had he the ability and knowledge to do it?

Though instinct
told him no, his heart spoke an entirely different matter.

He sat against the wall in darkness and with only a single candle burning. Arms around his legs, knees to his chest, Odin tried to quell the burning desire that wrapped around his lungs and threatened to burn them whole. His conscience a wreck, his thoughts deviant and darker than they should have ever possibly been, it seemed as though in but a moment his mind would crack and spill forth its essence from his nose and onto the floor below.

You would never do such a thing,
he thought, rocking himself in tune to the faint wind that whisked about the building and into the town.

Would he, though? Given the chance, would he really deny himself t
he opportunity of bringing someone who could secure his future, his hopes, dreams and, possibly, bring his sanity back to life?

“You can
’t do it,” he whispered. “It’s illegal.”

In the high courts of magic, as ordained by the Elves themselves, Necromancy was not to be practiced, for its malicious intent had once destroyed a group of people and
had inspired a tyranny so intense and vile it had them whole. The Drow were said to have been born from such things, from the ill use of magic, though what exactly would befall a Halfling who contained not only Elf and human blood, but the scant traces of Drow should he attempt such dark arts?

Would it hurt me
?

No matter how hard he attempted to force himself not to think such thoughts, it see
med they would not escape him. Like cats troublesome and in need of milk, they wrapped around his ankles and eventually began to climb his legs—claws out, legs extended—before they made his way to his chest. Once there, those thoughts—those
cats—
began to dig into his torso until they burrowed out the other side of his back.