Chapter 2

I strain to remember the sensation of unbridled youth. Decades meander past like water in a brook, and most days become an unending cycle of déjà vu, revisiting the same experiences I've endured innumerable times. Were it not for the purloined Kraken, I suspect I would scarcely notice the passage of time. Another pointless ritual, a ceremony, a death – all indistinguishable now.

Perhaps it is time to acquire a new vessel; this one has served me faithfully for the past three centuries, but I fear my mind is beginning to fray. What was once a keen edge is now dull, though I am filled with trepidation at the prospect of the transfer. The thought of inflicting harm upon my psyche unnerves me – a twisted mind inhabiting the body of a child? A young man? No, even if the toll is as steep as before, it remains preferable to losing everything.

Trusting in his brother, Dorian took any advice Kurt had to offer. He explained that he should start with little words, and little phrases, and move slowly from there. They would wander off the path together on their way back home. Kurt showed him how to find small game up trees, what types of animals were good for hunting and what kinds needed to be hunted for elimination. The former was broken down into two groups, eadin' and skinnin', and the latter as “pesseds.” Later he found his brother was saying “pests” but missing some teeth made t's a challenge for him. For some reason or another, he had gaps where they hadn't grown in. Despite that his recent growth spurt left Dorian behind, and Dorian began to make out a shadow of what his brother would one day be. Broad like his father in the shoulders but not the chest, his dirty blonde hair hung straight and unkempt. He wore thicker hides for pants, better to break through the brush with, and his leather tunic was getting too small for his upper frame. He was growing up.

Dorian on the other hand was nothing more than a big toddler, dwarfed by his brother and only friend, he struggled to keep up whenever they explored. Dorian could sense his brother's impatience, so with diligence he kept along. “Dad said if we go exploring, not to go too far off the path home. Says there could be cougars, or other predators.” Kurt spoke, slightly winded. Dorian nodded.

“You've been doing a really good job, I heard mom saying something about you catching up with the other kids your age. I think you should slow down a little, and just pay attention at daycare. You'll get to start a trade soon, and since I'm trapping, you'll probably get to learn from Dad.” Dorian's brows knitted, “But I don't want to. I like exploring with you, it's fun, and you're the only person I can actually speak with. It's so boring playing dumb all the time.” Dorian could hear the whiny tone in his voice. He didn't like it.

“I know Dorian, don't worry!” Kurt was suddenly excited, “I'll keep showing you all I can. It makes me better at it, and I'd like to cook some of the nicer things Dad can cook. I don't always want to eat the community slop and bread. Cooking is an important skill, and if I'm on a long trap, I'll have to live out of my pockets if I can't cook. When you learn, can you show me? Fair trade, right?” Kurt put his hand out to shake, they clasped wrists. “Fair trade,” Dorian shook, agreeing.

“Now that we have an agreement,” Kurt said in a boisterous voice, “What do you say to making a bet?”

“What kind of bet?” Dorian asked warily.

“The kind blessed by Kressor. I still haven’t made a wager for Kressor’s day and I figure, who better to help me than you? So, I bet if I give you to the count of twenty, I can still beat you home.” He said.

“That's not fair, it's almost all uphill from here, and your legs are way longer!” Dorian said, outraged.

“Okay, okay. Fine, count of thirty and loser has to clean the dishes tonight.” Replied Kurt.

“Wait, I've never done dishes before, wont it look conspicuous?” Dorian didn't want to raise any alarm, especially after the tedious process of only saying simple things. “Hot, food, da, momma, brrr, and yucky” seemed to be the most appropriate at first, which evolved over several months to, “too hot, I'm hungry, and that's gross.” Maybe jumping straight to doing dishes correctly would be a leap too far.

If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

“Consicou-us? You mean fishy? Nah, I was doing dishes when I was younger than you, it's time to teach ya. Besides, with a thirty count you might win.” Said Kurt, eyes tightening.

“I'll agree, but I have one question first.” Dorian said. Kurt's eyebrow lifted, and after a moment Dorian turned and shouted as he ran away, “Can you even count to thirty?!”

Dorian lost that race, and every race thereafter for three months. He got exceptionally good at washing dishes.

Time passed with his brother quickly. Routines, as they were, seemed to blur together. Seasons came and went. On his thirty-second season, his eighth birthday, he was brought into the fold of the cooks. Dorian was initially worried that this was the beginning of the end, that his brother and him wouldn't see each other anymore, that he would be figured out to be a Priorius and would be taken away from his family. Just the year before, Danny, the odd-looking kid that wiped his nose goop on the wooden toys, was taken. After he was gone, nothing changed. Like he had no impact on the world around him, like the ghost of a whisper, it was like he never was. That thought kept Dorian from sleep most nights.

Despite his concerns, replacing daycare with cooking tutelage was an easy transition, excepting it was expected that Dorian could communicate well enough to take simple instructions. By the gods, it was such a relief to actually be engaged, rather than just passively muddling through his days by listening in on adult conversation.

Dorian's father, Rand, had a slight paunch, was patient, warmhearted, and was slow to anger. This was surprising to Dorian, having overheard many a heated match between his parents, and a few times now even his brother. It was like his father wasn't a complete soul without his mother, and when they met the chaos of that interaction is what sparked real passion in the man's life. It was sweet, in a chaotic and noisy way, and it made him glad his parents had each other.

Throughout the first several weeks of cooking tutelage he had one job, turning the dough. Dad said that the only way to get it right was working at it hard enough to sweat into batch. Yeah, it sounded gross, but despite himself Dorian found it to be true.

Before the first month was done, Dorian felt he could accurately gauge when the dough was sufficiently mixed and knew all the steps to prepare the loaves for baking the next day. He would prepare all the dough after it had set for several hours, loading the rolls onto flat stone trays that were unbelievably uniform. So uniform that he couldn't help but be distracted by it, which is precisely when his father caught him.

“Done mixing, are we?” His father said, voice booming against the stone walls.

“Yep!” Dorian replied, playing the part of a naive child. “Da, how are all the trays the same?”

“Noticed that, did you? I didn't care to ask until I had forty seasons, at the least.” His father chuckled, “Must be from your mother. Yes, they're all the same Dorian, exactly the same. Some break, or are chipped, but when they were made, they were precise. We received them as a token of good will from The Monastery, all of ten generations back.”

Dorian was eyeing one of the trays and decided to pick it up. “So, they carved all these the same? But rocks aren't all the same, and I've seen other rocks that look like this, they're all spiky and sharp.” His brows knitted.

“Well, it's the same way our homes were built, the same way the paths through the forest never get covered even though the rest of the forest can grow over a field in less than two years. They're gifts, from the Gods.” His father sighed a moment, then decided to sit down. “When kids start to grow up, they get curious. I'm thinking my boy here is going to grow up bright.” His father ruffled Dorian's light brown mop.

“Many times, for reasons we don't get to know, the Gods decide to show us their good will through the Priorius. I don't know why, they just do. The same way we must plant beans to grow vines is the same way the Gods give to the monastery to show their kindness to us. The Gods do much for us, Dorian, and it always comes to us from the priests. Just trust, be grateful,” then he lowered his voice, “but don't depend on them. It's a good man that can care for himself, and others, off the sweat from his own back. They say that Metae's sin is pride, for she births change to the world. Pride, in small levels, can take anyone far, but too much of it is as bad as moldy loaves.” Dorian's father smiled down at him, Gods, he's humongous. Rand smirked, “But don't tell your mother that,” he said conspiratorially.

“What part?” Dorian asked, not sure if he should have just nodded.

“Neither.” His father said after pausing to think. “Your mother has a fair bit of pride, well-earned you mind, but more importantly, don't repeat the bit about the moldy loaves. Your mother will think it's something different.”

Rand stood then, dusting flour off his apron. “Alright, breaks over. Have you gotten to the three hundred yet? If not, do so, if so, then I can show you how to start working the stone ovens today. Heck, in four seasons and you'll get to do the wood cutting.” He smiled a self-satisfied smile, snapped his fingers and mumbled something to himself as he walked away, heading towards the ovens. Dorian thought he heard his father say in a sing-song voice, “Starts the ovens, starts the stoves, count both the fingers and toes.” Even though he was Dorian’s father, he still thought, “what an odd man.”