It was well past sundown by the time Brittle reached the cottage. The sweet scent of wet pine and earthy mud hung heavy in the cool air. A melody of crickets and frogs welcomed the dark as Brittle picked his way out from between the shaggy trees. The porch lamp glowed bright like a beacon, highlighting the weed-riddled yard in warm hues of orange and yellow. Brittle stopped at the tree line and glanced warily about.
The front door was open, but the steps leading to the house were empty. Returning home on time was not something he was very good at. At this point, arriving late should have been darn near expected of him. Still, he didn’t like the looks of worry and disappointment he received each time he sheepishly slunk into the kitchen, usually coated from antler to toe in something not meant to be tracked inside.
At least Edvin and Sir Thomassin weren’t running up and down the trees yelling for him like last time. A shudder of embarrassment rippled up Brittle’s bark at the thought.
Realizing there was nothing left to do but to get it over with, Brittle sucked in a big gulp of sweet night air and scuttled out across the yard towards the house. He avoided the front door and swung wide around the rear of the cottage, intent on clambering back through the window. It wouldn’t negate any of the lecture he was about to receive – only add to it, probably – but at least he could enter the home on his own terms. The open door just didn’t sit right. It felt too much like an invitation to his own undoing.
Luckily the back window was still unlocked from earlier. Brittle heaved it open before pulling himself through, mindful not to nick his antlers on the paint-chipped frame as he passed. A few seconds of awkward squirming later, he dropped down onto the faded rug with hardly a sound to betray his movements.
Unfortunately sound didn’t matter as there was a very cross looking giant sitting on the edge of Brittle’s bunk waiting for him. “Out late again, Little Loggo?”
Brittle was unable to contain the startled squeak that sprang from his mouth. Reluctantly, he turned to face the glowering giant. Physically, the God of Ill-Gotten Gainz appeared the same as he always did, except for the addition of a few unsightly scars from that fateful night in the wood mill. The spark in Edvin’s eyes didn’t shine as bright as it used to, though. He tried to cover it up the best he could with teasing and overall silliness, but his fiery spirit had been tempered. Brittle saw the brokenness each time he looked into those sad, tired blue eyes.
The sunken bedframe squealed in relief as Edvin stood, forced to stoop in order to avoid scraping the top of his shaved head on the ceiling. The hardwood floor trembled as he stepped closer. In less than a stride and a half, Edvin was across the room and snatching Brittle up into a smothering embrace. “Where in the blazes have you been, boy? You were supposed to be home hours ago.”
“Sorry,” Brittle gasped around his sudden inability to breathe. “Lost track of time.”
“Doing what?” Edvin set Brittle back down onto his own two, rickety feet. A knowing smile split across the god’s chiseled face. “Trying to make friends with squirrels again?”
“No.” It was just one squirrel and Brittle was certainly not going to admit that and risk getting teased for it. He tapped the tips of his twiggy fingers together, suddenly nervous to share the good news. “Something better.”
Edvin raised one bushy eyebrow. “Oh? Color me intrigued.”
A loud clatter from near the front of the cottage caused the god’s gaze to jump to the adjoining hallway. Edvin started back towards the kitchen at a pace nearly impossible for Brittle’s stumpy legs to keep up with. “Come on, you can tell me all about it at the table. Thom’s going to have a conniption if we dally any longer.”
“Oh,” the god abruptly stopped halfway, as if remembering something. He glanced over his shoulder and furrowed his eyebrows. “And stop being late all of the time. Back before sunset. Them’s the rules, got it? Don’t make me put my foot down.”
Being stepped on sounded horribly unpleasant. Although Brittle doubted Edvin had the willpower to do so, he acquiesced all the same. “Back before sunset from now on. I promise.”
“Good. Now let’s eat. I’m starving.”
The table was already set by the time they reached the kitchen. Tonight’s fare, like most nights, was cold bread, cured meat, and some sort of leafy green meant to be eaten raw. There was a small serving of loam in a bowl next to Brittle’s plate. The dirt surrounding Pleasant Valley wasn’t as nutrient rich as the swamp, but at least the taste was more palatable than the bitter greens Edvin was unconsciously curling his nose at. Most of their meals were eaten cold. The alternative, hot food, meant utilizing the brick fire pit. Utilizing the fire pit meant building a fire, which was also the quickest way to ensure Brittle spent the night in the woods, as far from the open flames as possible.
The family had come to a collective understanding that it was best to avoid that. Cold food, after all, was easier to stomach than having to spend all night coaxing a panicked bog log beast back into the house.
Brittle was practically bursting with excitement by the time he clambered up into his chair. He gulped down a spoonful of loam before making his announcement. “I made a new friend today!”
Sir Thomassin stopped stabbing unenthusiastically at his pile of greens as his face turned a shade paler than usual. “Please tell me it’s not another badger.”
“Human,” Brittle replied. “She’s an apprentice plant doctor and she’s fun, adventurous, and likes to talk to newts.”
“She talks to newts?” Some of the concern left Sir Thomassin’s face. He went back to shuffling his food around on the plate. “No wonder you get along.”
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
Edvin cleared his throat to garner Sir Thomassin’s attention. When that failed to work, the god settled with a less subtle kick under the table.
Sir Thomassin lurched sideways, nearly spilling from his chair. Straightening his posture, he delivered a withering glare as he scooted out of kicking range. The chair’s wooden legs scraped horrifically against the tile as he did so. “What was that for?”
“The kid made a friend.”
“I heard. Good for him.”
“A human friend.”
“So? He makes friends wherever he goes. Be grateful this one won’t chew on the rug.”
Edvin was doing that annoying thing adults did where he delivered a message within a message, relying on the words he didn’t say to get his point across. “Humans live in villages, Thom. Villages mean more people. More people is exactly what we are trying to avoid.”
“You go to the village all the time,” Thom countered, giving his bread an unenthusiastic chew.
“I’m not a sentient log that’s supposed to be in hiding!”
“She’s just one person,” Brittle interjected. “Besides, Rochelle wouldn't even have anyone to tell. She doesn’t live in the village. They like to throw rocks at her.”
Sir Thomassin choked on the bread. He beat his chest, sputtering, “They do what?”
“Rochelle?” Edvin repeated. Some of the fire in blazing blue eyes had returned. It spoke of fury, however, not frivolity. “As in, Rochelle Nettles?”
Brittle was reluctant to learn how or why Edvin was familiar with her full name. “Yes?”
“Might and muscle, kid! Of course, out of all the people you could have befriended, you chose a witch!”
“She’s not a witch, she’s a herbalist. Just like her grandad.”
Edvin buried his face into his hands. “Just like her grandad,” he agreed. “Barnabas Nettles, the old witch in the forest.”
“How do you know all of this?” Sir Thomassin demanded.
“You learn a thing or two by hanging out at the tavern, trying to sling protein powder, gold, what-have-you. If there is one thing Pleasant Valley isn’t short of, it’s gossip. They go on and on about all the bad luck the Nettles family brought to the village.”
“Rochelle’s not like that,” Brittle said.
“That may be, Little Loggo. But it’s not a risk we can take. You can’t see your friend anymore.”
Brittle flung his spoon across the table. “Says who?”
“Me.” Edvin looked to Sir Thomassin for support. “Him, too.”
Sir Thomassin had a far-off look on his face, sort of like a sheep chewing its cud, dreaming of greener pastures. “Do I?”
“Will you back me up here? You’re supposed to be the responsible one.”
“Exactly. You be the bad guy for once.” Taking his plate, the former knight stood and shuffled away from the table, left leg dragging slightly behind. He swiped on the dark green bottles from the upper cabinet before disappearing out the kitchen door into the sitting area. “See how you like it.”
“Brittle,” Edvin said with genuine earnest stretched across his sallow face. “I’m not doing this to be mean, I promise. But we have enough problems on our plate already. Ever since you-know-what, the other deities have been watching me like a hawk. I’m fortunate all they did was ban my powers while they try to sort through the mess left behind. Another mishap, and I could be taken away. I can’t risk that. I promised Mara to keep you safe.”
“Rochelle’s not a risk.”
“But the villagers who hate her are.”
“Then we won’t go near the village!”
Edvin’s fist slammed against the table. “I said no.”
Not to be outdone, Brittle stood on the seat of his chair and screamed back, “Stop telling me what to do!”
“Get down.”
“You’re. Not. My. Dad!” Brittle accentuated each word with a dramatic stomp. The chair legs rattled beneath him against the aged kitchen tile. Truth be told, he would have actually liked to have climbed back down, but the fact that he’d just been told to do so meant the opposite was in order.
“Good,” Edvin replied. “Because I wouldn’t want to be your dad!”
“Good! Because you’d be a terrible one.” And then, the worst words to ever come from Brittle’s mouth came hurtling forth like a raging current. “Just like your father!”
The kitchen fell deathly quiet. He shouldn’t have said what he said, but Brittle’s anger raged like a storm within his hollow chest. His heart stone burned hot, flooding his rickety bones with a heat he’d never felt before. A crackling pop pop pop filled the air, the source of which was coming from Brittle’s moss and lichen coat. Confused, he withdrew the three gold nuggets from his pocket. The trio shook and shivered within the palm of his hands as hairline cracks split across their surface. And then, with a final muffled crack, the gold erupted into a cloud of glittery dust.
Brittle looked to Edvin for answers but the god’s sunken face hadn’t changed since the comment about his father. His voice was strangely weak. “You’re grounded.”
Brittle didn’t know what grounded meant. From Edvin’s tone, he suspected it was something very bad. Which seemed woefully unfair as only good things ever came from the ground. He clambered down from his chair and then just stood there, awkwardly tapping the tips of his fingers together as he summoned the courage to ask, “Do I need a shovel?”
Edvin’s forehead wrinkled. “For what?”
“To dig the hole.” When Edvin’s confusion persisted, Brittle had no other choice but to clarify. “For the grounding.”
Edvin buried his face into his hands, muttering something about shrimp under his breath. “Go to your room.”
“And then what?”
“Stay there.”
“For how long?”
“Until you’re not grounded anymore,” Edvin snapped. “I don’t know. I’ve never done this before.”
Ah, Brittle understood now. This appeared to be another case of grownups calling something by another name to lessen its meaning. While Edvin had used the perfectly harmless word ‘grounded’, what he actually meant was ‘imprisoned’. Brittle stomped all the way down the hallway, mind reeling with questions as he sprinkled gold dust in his wake. Why was it called grounded? Who gave Edvin the right to boss him around? And, most important of all, what had caused the gold to turn to dust?
Brittle feared he knew the answer to that last one. He could feel it rolling around the inside of his head, teasing at his memory, reminding him of something he’d forgotten not that long ago.
And, as he slammed his bedroom door shut, the answer dawned upon him. He recalled his former conversation with Sir Thomassin and how one’s body changed over time. It seemed a bit early given Brittle’s age, but Thom had said the timing was different for everyone. Brittle hadn’t realized the changes would be so dramatic, or explosive, for that matter. His answer was not only clear, but undeniable – puberty.