John grinned magnanimously, dark eyes gentled in the light of late afternoon.
"I thought never to see you again,
return to ,"
he murmured, coaxing voice.
"For a mont’
I thought I’d lost you, my friend."
Luther rested his weight against the tree trunk and folded his arms.
"I didn’t co here to see you," he growled.
"I just had to get out of the house.
I was agitated and ran outside to get so quiet. I ca here to get so peace of mind—although I seem to have forgotten there’s already a fool here."
John’s eyebrows shot up.
"Hey!
Who’s the fool?
Who are you calling a fool?"
"Yourself, of course," Luther answered,
a small smile escaping before he could catch himself.
John put a hand to his chest in mock outrage. "Yeah? So funny."
The edge of his mouth curled up in a smile. He gestured towards a quiet hollow deeper in the woods where a soft mat of moss waited cool and welcoming.
" Co on.
Sit for a while and we can discuss this.
Ipromise I won’t be such an idiot."
The forest slled of rain-freshened leaves and fading rain. Birds leapt from branch to branch, and fading sunlight dripped to gold through the leaves.
Laden with worry, Luther hesitated, then nodded brusquely. They journeyed on together until they reached a spreading-rooted tree standing like a pillar in the air. They sat down under it, the giant roots curling around them like the arms of so ancient stone guard.
So, John began with a silence,
"co on,
tell about your family.
Your village.
What does your father do?
Where are you from?
I want to hear everything.".
Luther breathed slowly, his fingers brushing against the moss.
"I know nothing much about where we’re from,
" he admitted.
"But I feel like this has always been ho.
My dad and I, we’ve lived here as long as I can rember. Our village is small and green, right on the jungle and the side of this hill. Everyone knows everybody.
We party for every holiday so hard it fills the whole valley.".
His voice softened.
"My house is small—two rooms, but it’s okay.
I’m alone with my dad, Harold. He is a farr, and no one works as hard as he does. Season by season, he works vegetable and rice fields, never complaining. He’s the best dad anyone could ask for.
He made trendous sacrifices in order to bring up. When I am an adult, I will give him everything and be proud of him. That is my single true goal."
"You will," he said quietly to him.
"You can do it, Luther."
He paused,
talking quietly. "But. where’s your mother? What’s her na?"
The question struck Luther in the chest like a rock. He glared at the damp ground, watching a beetle crawl along a fallen leaf. "I don’t know," he breathed. "My dad never ntions her. He avoids all the questions. I don’t even know if she’s alive."
John’s face relaxed.
"I see.
Don’t cry,
friend.
I also do not have a mom. She died the day I was born, but my father always used to say that she loved more than life. I am their only child."
A stillness fell between them, dense with the hum of crickets. Luther glanced at his friend and saw sothing glinting in the fading light: one, glinting earring in John’s left ear. It glittered like a fire drop.
John laughed, the sound tumbling lightly between the trees. "
This? It isn’t an earring.
It’s a Potara."
About Potara-
He set a reverent touch upon the small ornant with unlooked-for piety. "The Potara is a symbol of royalty, hereditarily inherited. It is a sign of birth and power. There are few in the world. It looks like an earring, yes, but it holds special powers which make the wearer special. Once upon a ti it was given only to the man who had erged victorious after the hardest wars—those who beca worthy enough to be Lord.". The winner took the Potara and the power that goes along with it.
John’s eyes sparkled with a pride that was wiser than he was. "This one was presented to by my father. He has one, and I have one."
"Describe it to ," Luther said, leaning forward. "What did your father tell you about its abilities?
John paused, fingers tightening on the tiny ring. "I am from—" He caught himself, a flicker of embarrassnt crossing his face. "It’s just a simple Potara ring, like you see. My father is a rchant and a wanderer, nothing more." His voice was even, but sothing in the quick shift inford Luther there was more to it.
Luther caught the uncertainty and tilted his head. He’s holding out on , he concluded, but he didn’t press. Rather, he said lightly, "I see. Your dress is different too. They look. expensive."
"Really?" John’s smile returned, large and relaxed. "So you like them? I have plenty. I can give you so if you’d like."
"No, no. I was just complinting you," Luther said quickly. "You’re wearing them well, that’s all.".
Thanks," John said with a grin. "But if you ever need to borrow sothing, you can. You’re my friend now, anyway."
Luther’s smile wilted a little. "My dad doesn’t like to make friends or hang out with anyone," he said softly. "He’s always telling I should stay close to ho." The words were small, almost sheepish.
John gazed at him for a mont, reading the seriousness in those words. He then went over and grasped Luther’s hand, his own warm and solid. "Co on," he whispered, drawing him to his feet. "Let’s take a walk. You have to steal a little freedom when you can."
The trees welcod them with creaking leaves and the distant call of night birds. They strolled together under the fading light, two boys with secrets—trapped heritage in one’s ear and another in search of a mother who had slipped away in silence.
Then suddenly....
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