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~ 6th First Seed, 4E 195 ~
Sincano trudges down the path, a cutting of mountain flowers and sage clutched in his arms. Uncle Runil taught him to make his own potions to soothe his body from magical practice. Buying the dry ingredient from the apothecary is too expensive, let alone the potions themselves. Better to brew everything on your own.
He places his foot on a slippery patch of muddy soil and nearly tumbles to the ground.
“Geez Sincano, what are you doing? If you kill yourself, Dad’s gonna kill me.” Atalmo promptly grabs him by the arm, steadying him. He gives Sincano a friendly pat on the shoulder.
“That’s what happens going out in First Seed,” Rayya adds, chirpy. “It’s soaking wet even when it’s not raining.”
“It’s always soaking wet here.”
“You complain because you’ve never been in the desert.”
“Neither have you for that matter.”
Sincano smiles. Trite as it might be, it’s always amusing to hear Rayya and Atalmo bantering.
They had offered to help him forage, but then Sincano ended up doing everything himself; Atalmo would ruin the ingredients and he couldn’t let Rayya bring things on his behalf.
Finally, the bushes and trees thin out, cobblestones replace the dirt road and the slope gives way to a reassuring plain. At every bend in the path, the wooden walls of Falkreath draw closer.
A pair of idle guards nod to them as they enter the village. Dad’s not among them, but on patrol on the road to Helgen.
Sighing in relief, Sincano adjusts his load better. His arms are sore, but just a short, last stretch of road separates them from home.
***
“Need an escort to even go picking flowers, milk drinker?” Bolund shouts at Sincano from the crumbling porch of his house—when he’s alone, Sincano always avoids passing in front of it. Too bad today he isn’t and Atalmo won’t accept his fears.
Two other boys make Bolund’s cohort today. Sincano doesn’t know their names, recognises only their faces. They’re younger than Bolund, the two fellow Nords, fair children of the village, brought up on whispered dissing and now ripe for a more blatant display of human-borne hate.
“Did you make sure to grab the prettiest ones for mama’s grave?” Bolund keeps on his cruel tirade, emboldened by the lack of response and his little audience. It’s not a novelty; it’s been like this for years, but today he’s particularly flippant.
One of the children snickers, the other whispers something to Bolund—he has outgrown any other boy with-too-much-time-to-waste, as Runil calls them, but has never outsmarted any of them. He nods, then adds, “or are they for someone else?”
“Cut it out, Bolund. Nobody wants to hear your nonsense.” Rayya takes a step ahead of the twins, breaking Bolund's venomous momentum and shielding them both from the sight of his mug—for different reasons.
Bolund snorts and perches upon the porch. “And here’s the little lady-knight to the rescue. Guess someone has to, since even Big Brother has given up: he’s too ashamed of a milk drinker like you.”
“Come on, let’s go.” Rayya nudges her head toward Atalmo, livid already.
“Yes, follow the lady. She has more balls than you, but I guess that runs in the family, ain’t it?”
Atalmo halts. He clenches his fists, tense as a bowstring. “Shut your mouth,” he almost growls.
Bolund grins but gives Atalmo nothing more than a passing glance. He turns first to the spectators and then back to Sincano. “There’s no need to beat around the bush, Sunny. Everyone knows you’re the same as daddy.”
And then Bolund says it and Sincano hopes no one heard, but of course he has just shouted out loud. A flower falls from the pile and now lies between his feet. The word lingers, echoing in Sincano’s ears. He should not care: Bolund is a stupid, crude, no-good fool. But he cannot avoid it, because of everything it implies and everything it reveals.
He feels Rayya’s eyes on him, almost senses her pity, even though he knows she is his friend and won’t never show it. He feels the boys’ eyes and their derision. What Bolund said has left him with a burning mark that it will be impossible to hide: it’s a newly opened a wound that, from now on, everyone will prod into. But these are not the worst things, neither the pity of a friend nor the relentless cruelty to come. The worst thing is that Sincano doesn’t feel someone’s eyes fixed on him: his brother’s. Atalmo looks only at Bolund.
Sincano’s throat tightens, as does his stomach. He gasps for air, in vain. He squeezes the plants so tightly that he can smell the scent of sage and flowers as if he had just picked them; it makes him nauseous. But it is better to let it go: it is not worth it. Or at least it shouldn’t be.
Rayya mutters something, probably the same thing Sincano’s thought, but he can’t hear her: Atalmo is drowning out her voice.
“The fuck did you say?” He shouts, even louder than Bolund.
And of course Bolund says it again, because the wound is gaping, ready to be torn by laughter and the sizzling shame in Sincano’s stomach.
“Shut up!” Atalmo leaps and swiftly avoids Rayya’s attempt to catch him mid jump. Not that she ever had a chance: he towers over her by at least half a foot.
In a blink, he is on top of Bolund and even faster, the first punch crashes into his nose. With another blow and a squelching sound, blood pours down on the boy’s face. He throws up his hands to protect himself, but even those are caught in Atalmo’s fury.
One of the boys stands there, agape. The other plants a tentative punch against Atalmo’s back only to be elbowed away.
Sincano freezes in place. Once, he feared for Atalmo: Bolund is older and these fight used to end with a bloodied brother. But now Atalmo has all caught up; he could kill him if he wanted to. Even if he didn’t want to, if he snapped.
A malevolent instinct tells him to stand still, and let Atalmo rid the world of that burden. But Sincano is used to suppressing the detours his mind sometimes indulges in. He can’t do this to his brother!
He lets the ingredients fall to his feet and brings his hands forward as the magic flow into his open palms. The levitation spell catches Atalmo by the shirt and with a simple act of will he pounce backwards. For a second, Atalmo does not release his grip on Bolund, and the boy rises as well. When he lets go, he falls with a dull thud and a duller groan onto the stairs.
Atalmo lands on the path between Sincano and Rayya. The collar of his shirt is all torn, and a red bruise runs on his neck, right where the fabric has pulled at him.
Swift, in silent understanding, they grab Atalmo by the armpits as he kicks and flails and spits. The back of his hand hits Sincano full in the face. His ears ring, pain trills to his eardrums. A hint of metal creeps into his mouth: he has bitten his tongue.
But he doesn’t let go. Neither does Rayya. They both hold out: one misstep and everything is ruined.
“Let me go, let me go and I’ll teach him to shut up!” The anger has not yet let go of Atalmo, but neither will they.
Bolund stands still on the stairs. He moans and cries and covers his broken nose with his hands. There’s no trace of the two boys.
“I won’t let him insult you as he fucking pleases. With fucking nonsense.” Atalmo looks at them with wild, ferocious eyes. Sincano would be scared, if he didn’t know him.
“Please, stop it,” Sincano hisses at his brother. “You’ve done enough. Now calm down or you will end badly.” Then he leans over against him and adds in a whisper, so that Rayya can’t hear, “you’re about to snap.”
At these words Atalmo relents a little, enough for Rayya and Sincano to drag him away.
***
A lump of conjured ice falls into Sincano's open palms. He passes it to Rayya, who wraps it in the scarf she’s slipped off her head. A shiver rakes her when she places it on her reddened cheekbone. The eyelids of her left eye are also swelling. A stray elbow caught her too.
“I’m sorry I suck at Restoration,” Sincano says, just to break the harsh silence. “And I’m sorry for everything else.”
“Don’t even think about it. I’m not made of straw and if Mum gets nosy, I’ll blame Bolund. She’ll finish Atalmo’s job.” She winks at him with her good eye and gives a wan smile, but a slight quiver does not escape Sincano.
Rayya has a heart of gold, but she doesn’t know—if she did, of course, it would be even worse—and Sincano hopes that her heart will be enough to forgive Atalmo, even though he’s not sure if he’ll forgive him himself.
They both glance at the street leading to Dad’s house, at the empty spot occupied by Atalmo minutes ago; he left them here, purple-faced and trembling and with hands smeared with blood that isn’t his. They let him go, this time.
It is in such emptiness and silence that they say goodbye.
***
The barren branches of the pear tree in their orchard quiver at every blow Atalmo lands. His knuckles are battered, bloodied, black with flaking bark.
“This time you’re gonna get in trouble,” Sincano says. He leans back on his trembling knees, gasps and lets himself fall onto the cut log on which Dad and Atalmo chop wood. He is still exhausted from the struggle. “You smashed his face in. Captain Jorma will throw you a week under the Barracks at the very least. And Dad will get the worst shifts.”
“I don’t care. I can even stay there for a month for all the shit I give.”
Atalmo’s fist crashes into the bark again.
“You hurt Rayya too.”
“You should’ve let me go. That shitface deserved it. Next time, he’ll think twice before telling bullshit.” Atalmo continues, undeterred, to do to the tree what he wished he had done to Bolund. “How dare he say that about you? You are not—”
“I am not what?” Sincano cuts him off. He knows what he is about to say. The same shameful heat seizes him in the stomach, rises like boiling water to his chest, up his throat, to his cheeks. It hurts so much, his brother’s anger, still burning, as if it will never go away and reminds Sincano of all the things that are wrong with him.
Atalmo stops, his fists clenched in midair. He looks at Sincano with his mouth open, an expression somewhere between dismayed and surprised.
“Please don’t say anything more. At least you, please.” Sincano’s voice is merely a whimper—Atalmo might not have heard him, but at least he has kept quiet.
Even his ears are hot now. Salty tears have not yet left his eyes but already cloud his vision. His tongue still hurts from before. Sincano hunches over himself, clutching his knees to his chest, his feet pressed against the trunk.
Atalmo walks up to him and lays a bloody hand on his shoulder. The palm is warm and firm.
“I-I love you, you know. I just don’t want them to do this to you, to treat you like—”
“Like they treat Dad?” Sincano snaps back.
Finally, his brother lets him go. He lowers his ears, tightens his lips to a slit; he looks like a beaten dog. At that expression, Sincano feels sudden, absolute liberation. For a second, it’s all he wants to see, and really wonders what’s wrong with him.
“Sincano. I-I didn’t mean to— I’m just stupid— Sincano? Where are you going?”
With no words to spare, Sincano has walked away. But then he remembers how much Atalmo loves him and stops. He kicks a clump of dry black earth. It crumbles under the sole of his shoe. What is he doing?
But his regret lasts only a heartbeat, the time for Atalmo to catch up with him, still mumbling apologies in his clumsy ways. As soon as he reaches for his hand, Sincano pulls away: he cannot still forgive his anger.