The Onyx Throne Pt 01 Ch 44 45

Chapter 44

"What was Grandpa like when he was younger?"

Mitchell's dad looked up from the old photo album he was thumbing through in grandpa's den. His father had taken off his tie somewhere between the wake at the funeral home and the drive back to the now-empty house. Mitchell knew his dad hated ties, that they made him feel like he was a collared dog, but he'd worn one today. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone, and Mitchell, now 13 years of age, thought it made his dad look older somehow.

"He was... complicated," Mitchell's father said, his eyes taking on a faraway look.

"Mom used to say that the war changed a lot about him," he added. "When he got back from Vietnam, something was off about him. He never liked to talk about it, and therapists weren't really a thing back then. But she loved him still, and they made it work. Sort of."

To Mitchell, his grandfather was this grumpy, sour old man who had spent the last few years of his life hooked up to a ventilator, watching reruns of Walker, Texas Ranger and Clint Eastwood movies. Dad had said it was some secret agent named Orange that had made Grandpa sick, but that didn't make a lot of sense to him. Mitchell hadn't spent much time with him the last few years as the cancer and then the emphysema took its toll. The last year, he'd seen him only twice, at Christmas and at Grandpa's birthday. Both times had not been pleasant. Grandpa had seemed angry at everyone just for being able to walk around, while he was mostly confined to his chair and breathing machine.

"I knew he loved us, your Aunt Vicki and me. He just didn't know how to talk about it. People from his generation weren't always great about that. But he was still a hard bastard to live with sometimes."

Mitchell looked around the clutter of the den. The scent of cigarettes and medicine were still thick in the air, and a thin layer of dust coated every surface. The desk and coffee table were piled high with old Field & Stream magazines, pill bottles, and wadded up tissues. On the wood-paneled walls were faded black-and-white, and sepia toned pictures of Mitchell's grandpa and grandma, the latter of whom had died when Mitchell was still in elementary school. He could barely remember her, just a smiling plump old woman who always had butterscotch candies in her dress pockets and made really good biscuits. His mom had the recipe but they had never been quite the same.

There were pictures of them, smiling and happy, looking younger than Mitchell's father, then pictures of Dad when he was a baby, and later Aunt Vicki. And a lot of pictures of Grandpa when he was in the Marines. As his dad continued to page through the old photo album, Mitchell did his own probing. He'd never really been allowed in here before, and the shelves were filled with oddities that excited his young mind.

There were the books, for one thing. Loads of books on military history and wars. World War II, Korea, Vietnam, and a few from the First World War. Stuffed between the books were models of classic cars and hot rods, a few planes, old keychains, big heavy steel lighters with skulls or weapons engraved on them, and a lot of things with "Marines" and unit numbers as well. One thing in particular caught his attention as he scanned through all the shelves. It was a small dark wooden box with a glass lid a little bit bigger than his hand. He slid it from the shelf and examined it.

Inside, secured to velvet-lined backing, was a medal. The ribbon was blue with a white line running down the center, and attached to the ribbon was a gold cross with an old-style sailing ship in the center. It wasn't a cross like his Christian friend Amanda wore, the arms of this one were even on all sides.

"Dad," Mitchell asked, looking up at where his father was poking around Grandpa's desk. "What's this?"

"Lemme see," his father replied, and so Mitchell walked over and handed him the surprisingly heavy case.

Mitchell's dad opened it and stared at the medal for a long time before speaking.

"This is called a Navy Cross," he said finally. "It's one of the highest honors they give to Marines. It was your grandpa's."

Mitchell's dad looked up from examining the medal, and Mitchell saw that his eyes were moist.

"Did he ever tell you how he got it?"

Mitchell shook his head.

"He did a great thing in the war. Saved a lot of people. He was kind of a hero."

Mitchell's dad gestured the plush leather sofa across from the desk.

"Have a seat, I'll tell you about it."

Mitchell went to the sofa and cleared away some of the clutter so he could sit. Mitchell's dad joined him and took the medal delicately out of the box and placed it in Mitchell's hand.

"Grandpa went to the war early. Around 1964. He was barely eighteen when he got his marching orders. He and your grandma were high school sweethearts, and they got married just three days before he shipped out to Camp Pendleton. But my grandpa -- your great-grandpa -- had been a Marine during World War II, and had fought the Japanese in the Pacific. Your grandpa enlisted almost as soon as he turned eighteen."

Mitchell had only ever seen very old photos of his great-grandfather. He'd died in a car crash when Grandpa had been young.

"So, your grandpa was sent to Vietnam in the early days of the war. He said that he and his squad were--"

Mitchell looked up at his dad, who had stopped speaking. His father was frozen mid-sentence.

"Dad?" Mitchell said.

His father didn't respond. Something caught Mitchell's attention from the corner of his eyes. He looked, and the surrounding walls were melting. Like ice cream on a hot day, the textures were running down the walls, blending together. The shelves bowed under the weight of the books, which themselves were beginning to be pulled downward under their own weight. The large wooden desk across from where they sat was dripping large chunks of itself which plopped wetly on the floor and then began to sink into the hardwood floor as well.

"Dad!" Mitchell cried out in panic.

Mitchell turned and looked to see his father melting into the sofa and then Mitchell saw his own hands. The medal he'd been holding so carefully before, this sacred thing, was sinking into his flesh and the skin around his fingers was running off his bones like hot candle wax.

"Dad!" Mitchell screamed, and his vision began to shift as his eyes began to slip down his face. The coffee table had become a puddle of brown with colors swirling around that had been magazines only moments before. Mitchell couldn't move. He could feel his body sliding into the sofa and begin to spread out.

"Daaaaad heellllp!"

***

Mitchell sat up with a scream.

"Dad! Dad, help! I--"

He stopped and blinked. Next to him was a beautiful woman with the most pale skin he'd ever seen. Hair as white as a snow-covered field with eyes to match. Her alabaster face was so stunning it almost took his breath away.

"That wasn't so bad now, was it?" the strange woman said to him gently.

There was a light pink flush on her snow-white cheeks and a faint sheen of sweat on her brow.

"Such a powerful memory. So much pain, pride, and love."

The woman's eyes rolled back in her head, a sultry smile curling her milky lips, and shuddered in an almost sexual way. No, she had a name, Mitchell thought. It was...

"Luvari," Mitchell recalled. "Your name is Luvari. You're a... You're a fairy."

"A fey," She corrected him, her voice languid and thick with honey. She almost moaned the words. "Although, if we're being very technical, I'm an arch-fey. But we don't need to quibble about the titles."

Details began to come back to him, then. It was as if he'd awoken from a very deep sleep and didn't recall where he was, but pieces began to click into place. The deal for Allora's life, and the memory.

Mitchell's mind began to race as he struggled to recall the memory. The story from his father about his grandfather. The day of his funeral, his grandfather had done something. He was a hero. He had...

He racked his brain trying to recall what it was, but it was as if it had never happened at all. Luvari really had plucked the memory from his brain and erased it. He could remember the day of the funeral, he remembered walking into the den after his father when they returned home. His mother had stayed in the living room with his sister, Aunt Vicky, and her husband. But when Mitchell's father had excused himself from the conversation, Mitchell had decided to follow. The medicine and sick smell had been especially strong in the living room where his grandfather's hospital bed had been. It had made him a little nauseous.

Mitchell could remember about the memory. For example, it was the only time he could recall that his father had cried. He had memories of having the memory, as strange as it felt to say that. He remembered how impactful it had been, hearing about whatever it was his grandfather had done to get the Navy Cross. It had moved him so much that he almost joined the Marines after high school, but he had become disillusioned with the military after watching how the war in Afghanistan had gone on nearly his whole life. Everything had become political in his opinion, with soldiers no longer fighting for freedom but for someone else's greedy agenda. Maybe it had always been that way, he reasoned at the time, but when the time came to choose military or college, he just didn't have the gung-ho spirit that he'd had when he heard the story of his grandfather's heroism. But it had had a profound impact on him as a young kid on the verge of manhood and it was his first glimpse into what words like "honor" and "duty" really meant. And it was gone, now.

Next to where he lay on the floor, Luvari seemed to be coming down off her high. She arched her back and stretched feline-like, which once again strained the bodice to near its breaking point. With a deep breath, she looked back at him.

"What a day!" she said gleefully. "Now, the stone and your true name and your account will settled."

Mitchell blinked then recalled the last pieces of their deal. One of the three pieces of Awen that had come from the swords of the fallen Onyx Knights. His guts twisted at the thought of taking it from Allora but she would just have to understand. As for his name, he still didn't fully appreciate the reason for that but it must be valuable for some purpose or she wouldn't have asked for it.

"The stones are in her pack in the cave. I will get one. And then you can have my name."

Luvari got gracefully to her feet in one fluid motion from where she had been kneeling and reached out a hand to help him up. He accepted the offer and slid his hand into hers. Her skin was cool to the touch, and he thought he felt a slight tingling as she gripped him and pulled him almost effortlessly to his feet.

Mitchell excited the bedroom and out into the living room area to see Lethelin still passed out in the La-Z-Boy, a bandage wrapped around her arm where Luvari had withdrawn the blood. She also looked a little pale and next to her on the table were a plate of cookies and a glass of juice that had been mostly finished off. On the floor next to her, were three clear glass bottles that contained a dark red substance that Mitchell didn't need to guess at. Each one was stoppered securely.

"She'll sleep for awhile and wake up tired but fine. Have her eat as much meat as you can. Her body will need to replenish the iron."

Mitchell gave Luvari an appraising look.

"How do you know so much about biology? The people in this world don't even use electricity."

"I'm older than I look, and I have traveled to many worlds," she said with an air of superiority. "Also, don't be so quick to judge the people of this world just because they don't use electricity. They can do things with mana that your scientists could not even fathom. Just because they don't drive cars and have TikTok doesn't mean they're stupid."

"How do you know about TikTok?"

"I spent a week in your world and I learned quite a bit. It's progressed far since the dragon lords first found it and brought their slaves over. I visited a few times in the past, but the lack of magic there makes me weak. That's why the fey rarely visit. We have more need of mana than someone like Allora. Elves, humans, and the other races can utilize it, but for the fey it helps sustain us. Allora won't die without her magic, but eventually we would."

Mitchell returned quickly with the stone which she admired for a moment, then secreted away into one of her dress pockets. After that she directed him to sit in one of the chairs and pulled one to sit across from him.

"And now, for the last," she said, looking into his eyes.

On the other side of the room, Lethelin suddenly began to snore. Mitchell grinned and shook his head and Luvari rolled her eyes.

"So, do I just say my name?"

"It's more involved than that. You must imbue the name with your identity. You must mean it. You must feel who you are and push that into the words as you speak them."

"How do I do that?" Mitchell asked her, genuinely confused. "My name is my name."

"It is usually helpful to think of your mother," Luvari explained. "Think of how she spoke your name. Think of the pull you felt when she called to you. She was doing more than just speaking, even if she didn't know that. She was invoking your name, calling to your soul. That is what we need."

It sounded absurd to him, but Mitchell had learned enough to know that he should take it seriously. He did as she asked, settling back into his chair and diving once more into his memories, thinking of times with his mother. He went back farther and farther, some of his earliest memories that he still possessed. He felt a tingle across his skin and looked up to see that Luvari had closed her eyes and was in an almost trancelike state.

"No, we need to go back farther," she said slowly.

Mitchell knew then that she was in his mind.

"I thought you couldn't go into my mind," Mitchell said with an edge to his voice.

"I cannot charm you," she answered calmly. "I can enter your mind as you have not yet learned to shield yourself. How do you think I learned about your home and the food you liked? But I can aid you in finding the right utterance of your name."

Mitchell felt himself pulled along into his mind and into memories he was not consciously aware he possessed. It was almost as if he were watching them on a television screen.

"I think this will do," Luvari said. Her voice was only inside his mind now.

In the memory, Mitchell was looking up at the ceiling. His mother was standing over him and looking down at him with a beatific smile. Mitchell's vision was at about waist height to her so he guessed he was on the changing table. He vaguely recalled selling it at a yard sale when he was about ten.

And his mother! She looked so young! She would only have been about twenty five. Her long curly auburn hair was past her shoulders, her blue eyes bright and unwrinkled. She was wearing a Dead Kennedy's t-shirt that said 'Give me convenience or give me death!' and a hemp choker with a little pewter pot leaf on it.

The memory consumed Mitchell, and suddenly he was in this toddler form of himself. He felt the awkward kicking of his legs and his inability to properly control his hands. And he felt an overwhelming surge of love for the woman in front of him. His little body vibrated with the desire to be close to her, to be held by her warm embrace and to feel her hair tickling his nose. His mother, young and beautiful.

"My cute little baby boy," his mother said and she reached up to stroke his pudgy cheeks. At her touch, his body kicked out and he made a futile attempt to grab at her fingers but he couldn't quite work out how to move his little digits. She was warm and safe. She was everything that was good in his confusing and sometimes terrifying existence.

"I still think Lux Allen would have been better, but I let your dad win that one. Don't tell him, though, that's just between us," she said. "Gotta pick your battles, doncha!"

She ran her hand through his downy hair and his infant body went into spasms at the pleasure of the feeling.

Mitchell was a little taken aback by that revelation. She'd wanted to name him Lux? He had never heard that before. That was almost as bad as Frank Zappa naming his kids Dweezil and Moon Unit. Then, he understood. The Cramps was one of his mother's favorite bands, and Lux Interior was the lead singer's stage name.

"Jesus, mom!" Mitchell said to himself.

He said a silent thank you to his dad for not letting that one pass.

"But that's okay, you're still momma's boy."

She smiled then, the way only a mother can.

"My little Mitchell."

Mitchell then felt the power of his name.

In the memory, his mother was looking straight into his eyes. Mitchell, in his infant form, was looking straight back into hers. When she said his name at that moment, it tugged at something inside his tiny body. He recognized it as his name. He didn't know what that meant on a conscious level. They were just sounds to him, but his soul knew it for what it was. Now, decades removed from this moment, he could feel what Luvari had been talking about. With that knowledge also came the revelation that he could speak his true name. He still didn't know what it was for but he could honor the final payment.

"I have it," Mitchell said out loud.

Luvari didn't answer. Instead, he felt the memory began to slowly fade. He wanted to call out to his mother as it left him. The ache of homesickness felt like it was squeezing his heart near to bursting.

How long had it been since he'd talked to his parents? He honestly didn't know. A month? Two months? He didn't know the date and while Lethelin and Allora had begun to teach him the calendar, he didn't have it down yet and he doubt it would matter if he did. Time moved differently here. A day here might be three days on Earth. Allora had said she was in Phoenix hunting for him for what sounded like two or three months but it had only been a few weeks here.

Mitchell felt the tears in his eyes then but didn't wipe them away. If he died here, if he never saw them again, the least they deserved were honest tears of loss.

"Your mother was very beautiful," Luvari said suddenly. She almost sounded comforting.

Mitchell took a breath and shoved the homesickness away, as he had been doing for weeks now. He tried not to let it show, especially in light of what Allora had sacrificed and with the weight of what they were doing pressing down on all of them. It felt insignificant compared to that. But seeing his mother so clearly just then had brought that feeling back with interest.

"She really was. She doesn't look like that now, though. Almost thirty years, two kids, and gravity takes its toll. I'd only seen her like that in photos, but they didn't do her justice."

"She moved to Seattle for college when she was nineteen," Mitchell explained, suddenly feeling like he needed to share. "She was going to major in poli-sci and go into politics. She wanted to change the world!"

Mitchell chuckled at the story that had been shared so often as he grew up.

"She met my dad a year or two later at a little club where they were both seeing a band called Nirvana. My father said it was love at first sight. He saw her there with another guy, but he could tell she wasn't really into him. He said he fell in love with her the moment he saw her."

"I just knew," Mitchell repeated his father's words slowly. "I knew she had come with that other guy, but that she was going home with me."

He looked up at Luvari and saw her smiling gently at him.

"And she did?" the fey woman asked.

"She did."

"That's a lovely story."

Mitchell thought it sounded like she actually meant it.