- Bodin
He buried the head of the splitting axe into the stump with a hollow thud, and raised his head to stop the drips of sweat from rolling into his strained eyes. With a sweep of the back of his hand his forehead was clear for a moment, enough to blink and rub his eyelids, pushing a bit to relieve the tension from a hard afternoon’s labor. As he blinked, his gaze became clear once again – there it was, set into the horizon like a blot of ink ill placed on an otherwise immaculate painting – The Barrier City. Itrios was its namesake, but that was more for the people that resided across the moat and the lands and seas beyond. The boy had been working as help to this particular innkeep in exchange for a bed behind the kitchens for 3 full fortnight and had scarcely heard a traveler mention the name Itrios, but everyone talked about The Barrier City, and who could blame them.
The Barrier City sat flush atop the mouth of the Twin Rivers before the divide, on the Bay of Fortune. Any ships arriving from the Glass Sea could not make the journey up either of the Twins without entering the Bay of Fortune, and nobody entered the Bay of Fortune without docking at Itrios, unless they were planning on adding their goods and riches to the fortunes that dwelled at the bottom of the bay. The entire shore of the bay was in easy cannon range of The Barrier City, and no ships reached the mouth of either twin without a cannonball through its hull without checking in at the docks of Itrios, or so the boy had heard.
By the time he stopped daydreaming, he realized the sun was starting to dip its way behind the mountains. It was fast approaching dinner time and if the ovens and cooking pits went cold due to him daydreaming about what lay beyond the barrier, his chores would surely reflect it early, very early, the following morning.
“You let that lot in the city get in your ‘ed too much Bodin, you’re a good worker when your ‘ed isn’t in the clouds boy, now if you’d be so kind as to stoke that fire, I won’t ‘ave people eatin’ my stew cold” Havard said with his usual stern glance, he rarely turned from the counter, but he could turn his eyes farther than any man should be able to.
“My mother’d roll over in ‘er grave she would, ‘er stew wasn’t meant to get cold, it stunts the flavor in the broth..” Havard trailed off, his words feigning to mear mutters as he cleaned up an assortment of vegetable stocks strewn across the counter.
“I won’t ‘ave ‘er recipe getting a bad name on behalf of my ‘elper day dreamin’ about the fancy folk over the barrier..” he grumbled, so low it was hardly heard.
Bodin. The word stung in the boy’s ears everytime. He had been at the inn for a few months now, and it still stung sharper everytime, like a dagger being pressed and twisted against his skin. Bodin. With each mention of the name, the memories flooded back to his brother’s face, but each time, his face grew foggier than the time before. He still wasn’t sure why to this day he had announced himself as Bodin that first night he had walked into the inn, it had been so long since he had talked to anyone, it was the first word that came to mind when the innkeeper had asked “and who might you be” all those days ago – perhaps it had made him feel older than his 14 years, or perhaps it was…
“Bodin!” This time the word was much sharper, it startled him, the dagger twisting and pressing harder against his skin and a few sticks of kindling fell from his arms and scattered across the floor, he knelt down quick to gather them, all the while feeling Havard’s eyes on him and without looking, knew he was shaking his head slowly back and forth, mumbling away about the youth these days.
The daydreaming was getting the better of him more and more each passing day, and he had gone on too long now to tell that Bodin wasn’t his name at all, but that of his older brother he’d lost ways with on the road so many months ago. Truth be told he still occasionally wondered if this was all just a bad dream, perhaps he wasn’t day dreaming at all, maybe this is the dream – but the pondering was short lived, as it was a lie and he knew it all too well. He was Bodin now to everyone he knew, there was no going back to who he was and where he’d been raised, not at this point, so Bodin he was.
He threw the sticks in the fire and poked and flung them around with his hands, cursing slightly as he brought his fingertips too close to the flame but alas, Harvard’s mother could rest easy as the wood took and the flames began dancing so high they swiped at the bottom of the oversized pot. Dinner would be good tonight, Havard’s stew was unmatched, the old cook always said it was the basil leaves that made the difference, but everyone knew the basil was a distraction to hide the real secret.