Chapter Text
The first golden rays of dawn dripped serenely across the roof of the henhouse, painting the worn slats and beaten nails in ethereal, heavenly light. Bathed as it was in morning’s glow, one might have almost forgotten its humbleness, might have even ignored the cracks between the boards from which the squawking of indignant hens could already be heard (despite the early hour).
Carlos had not forgotten. He was, in all honesty, unable to forget, given that his head, shoulders, and most of his torso were already halfway through the door of the homely structure. He let out a grunt and raised his hand defensively as one of the hens–in a fit of apparent rage–aimed a savage peck straight at his left eye. The attack glanced off the heavy glove he wore, and he tsked his disapproval.
“Now, now, Anita,” he reproached the offending bird, who was currently giving him a baleful stare. “Is that any way to treat your old friend? I’m only here to collect some eggs.”
Anita let out a dreadful squawk, which seemed to stir all the rest of the hens into a frenzy; clucking and flapping with increasing fervor, several of them began to rise from their nests, beaks and talons all reaching for the human intruder. Carlos did his best, but eventually, the rising number of agitated chickens reached its peak. He retreated from the henhouse, swearing and nursing several bloody peck-marks that had managed to breach the protection of his gloves.
“Fine, then!” he called over his shoulder, tossing a rude gesture in the direction of the hens as he stormed away. “Be that way! Soon enough I’ll eat you all for dinner!”
His path led him back across the pebble-strewn farmyard, toward the sleepy silhouette of the squat farmhouse still clinging to the lingering shadows of night. The door let out a protesting creak as he shoved it open, followed in short order by a gruff voice calling, “I see the hens got the better of you this morning, mijo.”
“Good morning to you too, Papà ,” Carlos retorted, then winced as the door slammed shut behind him. “Sorry. About the door, I mean. Not the hens. Stupid, temperamental, intolerable–”
“ Ay, my son, be calm.” His father’s grizzled gray head shook once, then twice, a sigh escaping his lips. “It’s too early in the morning to be upset. Look, there’s coffee brewing.”
“Tell that to the hens,” Carlos muttered, but he dutifully slid into the empty seat beside his father’s at the low kitchen table, lulled somewhat by the bubbling of the promised coffee in the fat kettle dangling over the coals.
“Let Julio deal with the hens.” Reynaldo de Gallo regarded his son with humor-filled brown eyes, a deep chuckle issuing forth from his chest as he beheld Carlos’s hen-pecked wrists. “He has a way with the creatures, you know. My, they certainly gave you what for.”
“Julio sleeps too late,” Carlos groused. “It’s better to collect the eggs early. Besides, if I deal with the hens, then he has to handle the roosters.”
“Ah, but at least with the roosters, you have the space to run away,” Reynaldo replied, a smile tugging at the edges of his mouth. “The hens have you at their mercy.”
They continued on in this way, soft banter drifting toward the weathered ceiling beams as the light continued to grow, until the kettle released its telltale shrill whistle, piercing the morning’s quiet with an arrow of noise.
“Coffee’s ready.” Reynaldo rose with a quiet huff of effort, joints creaking, and moved to retrieve the kettle from its hook over the coals. He busied himself about the cupboards, pulling down several timeworn ceramic mugs–one with a sizeable chip eaten out of its rim–the large bowl of Helianthian sugar, and the smaller one filled with cinnamon powder. The baked clay containers clinked gently against one another as he set them on the table.
“Help yourself,” he said when the implements were all laid in their places. Carlos obliged, snagging one of the un-chipped mugs and filling it with the rich brown coffee. Steam wreathed his face, carrying the drink’s aroma with it, and he breathed in, feeling his previous irritation beginning to dull.
They sipped their drinks in amiable silence until the sound of creaking hinges drifted down the hallway, followed in short order by the padding of sleep-bleary footsteps.
“Oh, coffee?” Rosa de Gallo rubbed at her eyes, which had widened at the sight of her husband and older son already stationed around the kitchen table. “Bless you, mi amor . I didn’t rest very well.” Her hands reached for a mug even as she spoke the words; Carlos could see, as she drew closer, the bruiselike circles staining the skin beneath her eyes.
“Bad dreams?” Reynaldo asked, eyebrows knitted in concern.
“It’s those pirate rumors,” Rosa sighed. She lowered herself gently into the chair beside Reynaldo’s, both hands clasped around the steaming mug. “I know it’s all talk, but it doesn’t stop me from worrying.”
“ Ay, my love, I wish I could convince you that there’s no substance to those tales.” Reynaldo shook his head, drumming the fingers of his free hand against the table. “It’s just village gossip. People will say anything for a little excitement, especially in such a time of peace as we are living in.”
“Besides,” Carlos put in, “you wouldn’t need to worry about pirates even if they did come. I would protect you, and all the village besides.”
“Ah, yes, with those swordplay skills you practice at night in the farmyard.” Rosa’s lips pursed in disapproval. “Julio told me you’ve been using the hay bales as targets.”
“Julio is a tattletale,” Carlos retorted. “I haven’t, and it wouldn’t hurt the hay bales anyway if I had. They’re just hay.”
“But they’re important,” a higher voice spoke up from the hallway. “And Mamà doesn’t want you practicing swordsmanship.”
“Oh, and it’s your job to prevent me from it, is that right?” Carlos turned to face his younger brother, who had just emerged from the hallway, dark hair still tousled from sleep. Julio’s wide eyes wore a look of exaggerated innocence, but Carlos did not miss the gleam of mischief in them. “How would you know what I was doing after dark, anyway? You’re supposed to be asleep.”
“Uh–” Panic flared on Julio’s face, and he stammered, “I-I just needed a drink of water, and I caught sight of you when I was walking to the well.”
“Or, more likely,” Reynaldo interrupted with a meaningful glance at his younger son, “you were sneaking about, trying to watch your brother practice because you wanted to see what he could do.”
“I, um–”
“Not you, too!” Rosa scolded, now turning the fire of her disapproval toward Julio. “It’s enough having one son allured by violence. I won’t have both my sons enchanted with the sword.”
“Mamà, it’s not violence ,” Carlos protested. “The knights don’t just swing their swords indiscriminately. It’s about keeping people safe.”
He felt himself quail a bit beneath his mother’s reproaching stare, but the fire in his belly remained, even as Rosa let out a deeper sigh. “Carlos, it is still dangerous violence. I know you admire the knights, but please, son, don’t let yourself be drawn in so far. I couldn’t bear to live with myself if you were hurt, or if you hurt someone else.”
“What about if that ‘someone’ was going to hurt you?” Carlos retorted, a bit more snappily than he meant to. “Or Julio or Papà? You would rather I just stand by and let it happen?”
“Son, I know you mean well,” Reynaldo interjected heavily, “but I forbid you to speak to your mother that way. You know she would not want to see any of us harmed.”
Heat bloomed in Carlos’s cheeks at his father’s reprimand, and he felt his hands clenching into fists as he willed himself to remain steady. “I am sorry for snapping, Papà, but I cannot be sorry for saying that I would stand up to defend our family.” He pushed himself abruptly back from the table, wincing as the chair’s legs screeched against the floor. “I’m going back out to see to the hens. Thank you for the coffee.” And before any of his family members could speak in protest, he rose from the chair, turned on his heel, and disappeared through the door into the rising sunlight.
He did return to the henhouse, nursing his bruised ego; the hens seemed to have settled in the time between his first visit and the moment at hand, and they clucked and preened as he stuck his head through the door, every beady black eye trained upon his face.
“I don’t suppose you’re ready to share your eggs yet,” he commented sarcastically. “Perhaps I should apply a little dangerous violence.”
Naturally, no response came from the hens; a quiet voice, however, did speak up from outside the henhouse. “I’m sorry.”
Carlos whirled. There stood Julio, guilt scrawled across his face in heavy lines, his hands twisting at the hem of his nightshirt. He spoke again as Carlos speared him with a withering glare. “Papà was right. I just wanted to watch you practice. Mamà caught me sneaking back into the house and I told on you so I wouldn’t get in trouble. I’m sorry.”
“A lot of good that does now,” Carlos snapped. Seeing his brother’s face crumple, however, a twinge of guilt pierced his own heart, and he sighed. “Julio, you don’t yet understand what it means to be ready to protect those you love. You’re only twelve, of course you don’t. But Mamà doesn’t understand either, and you’re not making things easier for me.”
“But why do you have to be ready to protect us?” Julio’s little fists were wrapped into cocoons of fabric, pulling so hard at the exposed skin that it blanched with the pressure. “Are there really pirates coming like Mamà is scared of?”
“What? No, of course not.” Carlos shook his head. “That’s just a silly rumor. As for why…” He trailed off, waving a hand vaguely in the air. “I…it’s hard to explain, hermanito. ”
“Can you try?” Julio glanced back over his shoulder, and Carlos followed his gaze to the sunlight glancing off the closed farmhouse door. His brother’s voice was small and whispery when he spoke again. “Mamà is really upset with you, but I think it’s because she’s scared. And if there’s something I can do to help her not be scared, or upset with you, then I want to help.”
Carlos hesitated, his eyes flickering between his brother’s plaintive face and the stripes of golden light on the distant door–the hurt he knew was concealed within. Finally, he threw up his hands. “Fine. But you have to help me with these wretched hens. They pecked me within an inch of my life when I came out for the eggs this morning, and I’ve half a mind to cook them for dinner.”
The brilliant smile that cracked Julio’s face from ear to ear softened whatever hardness might have remained lodged in Carlos’s heart. “Of course! I’ll do it right now.”
Standing back, Carlos watched his little brother climb fearlessly into the henhouse, his soft voice already speaking up to soothe the hens as they started their clucking and fidgeting once more. Remarkably, no cries of pain or surprise issued from Julio–he remained ensconced within the henhouse for some time, long enough that Carlos was beginning to worry he had gotten stuck, at least until his tousled brown head popped back out, now sporting a few white feathers as decoration. “Can you get a basket? I can’t carry all these eggs in my nightshirt.”
“ Ay , how do you do it?” Carlos chuckled ruefully and shook his head. “Sure, hermanito. One moment.”
He returned with the promised basket, handing it carefully through the door and bending down on one knee in an attempt to peer through the gap between two of the slats. Julio was perched precariously in the flat space between the shelved cells containing the chickens, one hand outstretched and stroking the feathered heads gently as he murmured words Carlos could not make out. The other hand expertly maneuvered beneath each hen, retrieving eggs and setting them securely inside the wicker container.
“ Ay ,” Carlos repeated, blowing out a short breath of amazement. He said nothing else, however, for fear of disturbing whatever spell his brother had cast over the hens. At length, Julio extricated himself from the henhouse, now dusted with feathers and stalks of straw, the basket of eggs clutched in his hands.
“Here,” he said, offering the basket to Carlos, who shook his head.
“No, you should take them inside,” Carlos said. “Maybe it will ease Mamà’s temper a bit.”
“But I thought we were going to talk,” Julio protested, crestfallen.
“We are, don’t worry.” Carlos gestured behind him, across the farmyard, where the low-roofed barn stood amidst several rolled and twine-tied bales of hay. “Meet me in the hayloft. We’ll sit there and talk, where nobody else can hear, okay? And, Julio?” He offered a smile when his brother’s eyes met his. “Thanks. For helping with the hens, I mean.”
Before Carlos could react, his brother’s arms were around him in a rib-crushing embrace; equally quickly, Julio had let go, darting across the farmyard with the basket of eggs hung in the crook of one elbow. He disappeared through the door, letting it swing shut behind him.
By the time Julio finally pulled himself up into the hayloft to sit beside his brother, the sun had risen in earnest, pouring a river of golden light across the whole broad hilltop upon which the de Gallo farm was perched. It spilled over the crest of the hill in a shimmering wave to settle, at last, on the shingled rooftops and beaten gravel paths of the little town cradled in the valley below, smoke puffing cheerfully up from the many chimneys to mingle with the clouds in the sapphire sky.
“What’cha looking at?” Julio spoke up as he poked his head above the rim of the hayloft–which was really just a shallow shelf overhanging the floor level of the barn, accessible by a sturdy ladder set against one of the building’s support beams. He scrambled from the ladder onto the planks, feet stirring the remnants of straw left over from last autumn’s harvest.
“Come see,” Carlos replied, gesturing out the single narrow window beside which he had taken his seat.
Julio obliged, and Carlos couldn’t help smiling at the expression of wonder that spread over his little brother’s face at the sight of the town drenched in morning’s brightest light.
“It’s like someone took a paintbrush and painted the whole valley with gold!” Julio exclaimed. “It’s so beautiful!”
“ Si , it is,” Carlos said with a nod. “I love to sit up here in the morning and watch the sun rise–that is, when I don’t have exasperating hens to tend to,” he added, winking.
“They’re not exasperating ,” Julio protested, his brows drawing together. “They just need a gentle touch from someone who knows them and will treat them with respect.”
“ Ay, hermanito, I’m kidding.” Carlos clapped his brother on the shoulder and sighed. “I’m glad you know how to care for the hens–that you haven’t lost your gentleness.”
For a moment, the brothers sat in gold-washed silence, unspoken thoughts dangling between them like the most fragile of cobwebs drifting in the still air. Then, Julio spoke. “Would…does being gentle mean I would be bad at protecting people I love?” His voice had lost some of its tone of wonder, had become something smaller, cautious and sheltered by anxiety.
Carlos pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, considering his words quietly before he finally allowed them to fall from his lips. “No, Julio, of course it doesn’t. It’s good that you’re gentle–with the hens, and with Mamà and Papà. The world needs gentle people.”
“That’s not what I asked.” Julio folded his arms across his thin chest. “I didn’t ask if it was good that I was gentle. I asked if it would make me a bad protector.”
“I–well–” Carlos trailed off, unsure of how to answer and frustrated that his brother had made such a clarification. At last, he said, “Why do you need to be a protector?”
“You said I didn’t understand what it means to be ready to protect those I love,” Julio replied, and Carlos winced as his brother parroted his earlier words, harsh and spoken in anger. “I want to understand. I don’t want to do something wrong…to disappoint you.”
Carlos suddenly found that it was hard for him to swallow around the lump that had formed in his throat; he coughed to clear it, blinking against the unusual mistiness in his eyes. “Julio, you haven’t disappointed me,” he said softly. “I was angry with you for telling Mamà about my practicing. And I’m frustrated with her for not understanding what I’m trying to do. But I love your tender spirit, mi hermanito. I don’t ever want you to give that up, especially not for my sake.”
“What are you trying to do?” Julio asked earnestly. “Why do you have to be ready to protect, but I don’t? What are you protecting? Why can’t I help?”
“It’s hard to explain,” Carlos said, repeating himself; then, sensing that his brother was about to protest, he held up a hand. “But, I promised I would try, and try I shall.” He inhaled a deep breath, letting his gaze drift back to the window, then through it to the sunlight-washed valley below. The light had reached the edge of the town now, and glittered upon the gray-white sands and pristine blue waters of the shore just beyond.
“Do you know the story of Jurio of Mythland?” he finally asked, when he had gathered his thoughts enough to speak.
Julio nodded. “I’ve heard it from some of the village boys who go to school, I think. Jurio was a warrior who was friends with a shepherd, and helped keep her flock safe, right? I liked the story because Jurio’s name sounds sort of like mine.”
Carlos chuckled at that. “It does, kind of. And yes, Jurio of Mythland was a warrior, back in the time before Mythland had kings or queens, when her people were wanderers who followed the herds of blood sheep as they roamed beneath the boughs of the great dark oaks. His best friend was a shepherd named Valèra, who cared for the largest and finest of the flocks of Mythland. No wool was as fine, no offering as pure as those which came from her flock.”
“What does this have to do with–” Julio began to interrupt, but Carlos held up a hand to forestall him.
“Be patient, I’m getting to that,” he admonished.
“Okay, okay.” His brother pouted a bit, but fell back into silence, dark eyes watchfully locked on Carlos’s face.
Satisfied that he had Julio’s attention, Carlos went on. “One day, Jurio and Valèra got separated. Valèra wasn’t worried, for she had walked the forests of Mythland many times and encountered no danger. However, on this day, she had the misfortune of meeting a wolf, who demanded she hand over a sheep from her flock.”
Julio shook his head vehemently. “Well, of course she didn’t, right?”
“She refused immediately,” Carlos confirmed. “She told the wolf to leave, and that she would never sacrifice a single member of her flock. Unfortunately, the wolf was very clever, and had wanted Valèra to argue with him. While she was talking, his entire pack surrounded her, until there was no way for her or her sheep to escape. The wolf then laughed in her face and bragged that he had outsmarted her, and that his pack would be eating very well that day.”
“What?” Julio exclaimed. His eyebrows had shot up almost to his hairline, brushing the ends of his shaggy brown bangs as he gawked in outrage. “That’s not fair! I don’t remember this part of the story!”
“Settle down, hermanito , it’s just a folk tale,” Carlos chided, though he, too, could not deny the rapid pace of his heartbeat beneath his skin. “I can stop if it’s too much.”
“No, I want to hear the rest.” Julio clamped his mouth shut, though his eyes were still wide and alarmed.
“ Anyway .” Carlos cleared his throat and returned to the story, doing his best to ignore the way the thump of his heart had begun to echo in his ears–as it did every time he told this tale, every time he read it or even thought about it. “Unable to see a way out, Valèra did the only thing she could think of: she made a desperate bargain with the wolves. ‘If you keep me alive,’ she said, ‘I will make sure you eat well for the rest of your lives. Let me and my flock walk free, and I will provide you with a sacrifice from my flock whenever you have need of food.’
“The wolves were enticed by her offer, and agreed to her terms, taking her under their ‘protection.’ They indeed did not eat her, but she was forced to follow them where they roamed, providing a sheep for them to eat whenever they had need of food, as she had promised. Eventually, the wolves led her out of Mythland, into the great fields of Helianthia, then further on, toward the mountains that reach up to touch the sky in the south.”
“Where was Jurio?” Julio protested. “I thought this story was about him.”
“If you interrupt me one more time, I am going to drop you out of this hayloft and feed you to the hens.” Carlos lowered his eyebrows ominously, spearing his brother with a glare until he finally, once more, fell silent. “ As I was saying . Jurio had been looking for his friend ever since they had been separated, growing more and more worried the longer he was unable to find her. He traveled across Mythland from the edge of the dark oak forest to the furthest reach of the eastern shore many times, but still, he could find no sign of Valèra.
“It was only after months of searching fruitlessly that someone finally told him what had happened between Valèra and the wolves, and how they had spirited her away to the south, toward the mountains where the elves were said to dwell. Inflamed with fury, Jurio set out immediately to rescue his friend, who had been suffering greatly under the increasing hunger of the pack. He made the journey in a matter of days, neither eating nor sleeping, but being sustained solely by his righteous wrath and the vigor of the Sanguine One, whose blood flows in the veins of all Mythlanders.” Here Carlos paused, as he always did, for dramatic effect; this time, however, the feeling was different than all the times he had pulled out this tale as entertainment for his cousins beneath the starlit veil of a Sacred Blood feast night. The anguish of Valèra, the fury of Jurio, felt as if they lived and breathed within him, straining wildly against his skin, pressing against the constricting bonds of his flesh with such insistence it threatened to make him sick.
“Carlos?” Julio spoke up timidly. “Are you okay? Your face looks…strange.”
“...I’m fine, hermanito .” It was an effort to force the words out; this time, Carlos did not reprimand his brother, merely swallowing and inhaling deep breaths until the wild feeling inside him began to dull. “I forgot to eat this morning before I went out to see to the hens, that’s all. Don’t worry about me.”
“Okay…” Julio did not sound entirely convinced, but he did settle back from where he had risen onto his knees to reach toward his brother in concern. “You don’t have to finish if you don’t want to.”
“No!” The word burst from Carlos with such insistence that both he and Julio jerked, startled by the explosion of sound and feeling. “No,” he repeated, more gently, when he had regathered himself. “I want to finish. I just needed to take a breath.”
Silence fell momentarily, a heavy and dreadful silence, broken only by Julio’s soft, “All right, if you say so.”
Trembling, yet doing his best not to betray it, Carlos pressed on. “At last, Jurio reached the hollow in the mountains where the wolves had made their home, his anger and sadness only growing when he beheld noble Valèra, thin and unwell, still holding her head high and comforting the few sheep who were left in her flock. In the dead of night, when all but a few of the pack slumbered, Jurio made his way into their den, to the side of his companion, who at first did not believe he was really there. Once he had convinced her that this was no trick, however, she embraced him with great joy and relief, finally tasting hope for the first time in months. Jurio handed Valèra her crook, which the wolves had forced her to leave behind, and together, they set upon the wolves in furious battle, until the entire pack lay dead before them.
“Victorious and reunited at last, the two friends returned home, and shared their tale with all they met, warning them of the dangers of straying too far alone. Eventually, word of their great journey spread beyond them, and the people of Mythland flocked to them as sheep would to a shepherd, amazed by Jurio’s great determination and Valèra’s great endurance. Though Jurio and Valèra had never planned for such a thing, the Mythlanders begged for them to unite Mythland’s people and care for them as they had cared for each other. And so, Valèra became Mythland’s first queen, and Jurio her first faithful knight, and they served and protected the people of Mythland just as their descendants do today.”
There was not a sound in the narrow space of the hayloft; everything seemed frozen, held still as if time itself had taken in a breath and refused to let it out. Dust motes hung suspended and glimmering in the golden air, waiting for the world to exhale.
“I think I understand,” Julio murmured at last.
“Every time I have heard that story,” Carlos said, knowing he must look haggard, and pressing forward regardless, “the blood has leapt in my veins. I must follow the path of Jurio. I do not know why, but I know that I must. I must protect Mythland, or at least this little corner of Mythland, with my life.”
“I know.” The reply surprised Carlos, but Julio’s voice was sincere. “I can see something in your eyes that’s different. It’s like…I don’t know how to describe it, really. Like fire, but also like water, like when the ocean is at its strongest and crashes onto the sand.”
“Thank you, Julio.” Carlos reached forward and pulled his brother into a shaky embrace. “Thank you for listening to me. I know it doesn’t make any sense, but thank you.”
They held onto one another for a long time, breathing in the musty smells of old straw and old wood, soaking in the warmth and stillness of that moment. Finally, Carlos let go, leaning back to look his brother in the face. Julio’s eyes were thoughtful, his lips pursed in concentration.
“Have you considered entering for the Festival Cup?” he asked.
Carlos blinked, startled and unsure he had heard his brother correctly. “What?”
“The Festival Cup,” Julio repeated. “You know, the tournament for the Wither Rose Festival. I heard from Pedro down in the village that whoever wins it automatically gets a position in the Royal Guard.”
“It is my greatest dream,” Carlos admitted. “But Mamà would never let me.” Visions of the great golden chalice had tantalized him ever since he had first heard about the renowned tournament, held every year on the grounds of the Wither Rose Alliance’s annual summer festival. The cup itself, and the monetary reward it came with, would be enticing enough for any poor farm boy to want to compete; besides that, rumor had it that the winner of the Cup would indeed be immediately inducted into the royal knighthood of Mythland, to serve at the side of the king.
“You know, you could always just…go,” Julio said after a momentary pause. There was a familiar undertone of mischief in his voice, recognizable from the many seemingly-innocent excuses he had given whenever one of the farm implements had somehow turned up dangling from the farmhouse gutter, or one of the roosters had been discovered with its comb half-shorn off. “What’s that old saying…easier to ask forgiveness than permission, or something?”
Carlos stared at his brother in disbelief. “Are you…actually suggesting I run away and enter the Festival Cup?” He let out a sharp little laugh. “No you’re not.”
“I’m suggesting you follow the thing that’s clearly tugging at your soul,” Julio corrected, all traces of mischief now vanishing into seriousness. “I may not be the best at paying attention in church, but one thing I know is that if you have a soul-calling, denying it is a terrible idea. You said it yourself–you have to do this. And, if it helps,” he added, with a smile that showed his single dimple, “I believe in you.”
“Julio…” Carlos, once again, was speechless; this time, however, it didn’t last long. He wiped roughly at the mist in his eyes, reaching out a hand to ruffle his brother’s hair. “I take back what I said, about you not understanding. You’re much too wise to be only twelve years old.”
Julio grinned. “You can apologize by winning the Festival Cup,” he said.
Carlos, through his emotion, grinned back. “I think I might just do that.”