The invitation almost didn’t find him up in Alaska.
For the first time ever, Larry the mailman had to take the entire route he was actually supposed to take. Usually, he just scooted past the street to the next because there was never any mail to deliver. It was strange. The guy didn’t even receive jury duty summons or postcards or junk mail. It was like the whole damn world forgot that he existed. Or maybe it just didn’t care. It was kind of sad. Anyway, the guy’s house was set so far back on the gravel road that you couldn’t see it. It was perpetually in the shadow of the icy mountains, no matter what time of day it was, the sun never seemed to shine down on his vast acreage. It was dark and spooky now, real murdery vibe. Real Man versus Wild bullshit that got most wannabes killed out here. Larry figured this guy knew what he was doing. It was still unnerving. He considered just slamming on the gas and high-tailing it out of there, singular-piece-of-mail-be-damned, but he had more integrity than that. He slowed the truck down just long enough to pull open the rusted mailbox door (breaking it off in the process, oops) and shoved the expensive monogrammed letter in. Phew, that’s over with he thought, easing away from the nonexistent curb. He even chuckled to himself for being such a loser before. Poor guy probably just needed a friend.
One carefully aimed shot blew out his side mirror.
~
Crito pulled up to his sister’s house in the oldest station wagon to still run on American soil. He’d had it ferried to the island when they ran out of road on the mainland – he couldn’t go anywhere without his trusted steed. She groaned and sputtered as he came to a stop and killed the engine. He patted the dashboard in sympathy, because he felt how she sounded. Just seeing the amount of cars parked around the house (and some in the yard, left crooked and haphazard in their stillness - women drivers, he shakes his head) gives him a sinking feeling in his gut.
He walks up the path and meets the door with rising trepidation, his hand hovering in mid-knock. Already, he can picture the chaos that lingers just behind it. He can see all of his relatives (most of them Scorch’s kids, and their kids, and so on) and their penchant for drama and exuberance driving him insane already. He can even hear it: the loud voices, the hearty laughter, a deep, driving bass beat from somewhere behind the house. It makes him miss the silent bliss of the dark mountain back home, the home he’s only just left to come here. Here, where the bodies will be close and the air warm just like the childhood he’d run away from many years ago.
The heavy door flies open before he can make a movement either way. And then he’s ushered in, a drink shoved in his hand, and many introductions and reintroductions happen that pass in a blur. The house is magnificent in its opulence and wealth, but Crito is too busy trying to learn all the names of Scorch’s prolific brood to pay greater attention to it. Damn that woman has been busy. He meets some of his nieces and nephews and their children, his great-nieces and great-nephews? He’s not sure. The dynamics get tangled and sometimes he doesn’t know where the blood connection begins and ends – or if there even is one in the first place. It isn’t because of this confusion that he avoids pointed, appreciative glances of the women. He’s never been a connoisseur of fineness or romantically inclined. More importantly, none of them are Lagertha.
Eventually, he finds his sister.
“Scorch,” Crito says quietly, coming up beside her. She looks busy. He doesn’t want to bother her in the midst of a million people filtering in and out of the house, and her trying to keep track of them and their level of fun. But it’s been a long time since the twins have seen each other. Too long, probably, and that’s on him. Crito rakes an age-spotted hand through his thick, peppered hair as he regards his sister. Without thought, he hands her his yet-untouched third glass of gin and tonic. Like him, it’s simple and reliable. It’s probably not as exotic a drink as she’s used to but the night is early for both of them. There will be time for heavier drinking later; he’s already looking forward to it. A crooked grin creases his face. “Feels like I’ve lived a whole long life and died since the last time I saw you.”
C R I T O
brother of the tundra
@[Scorch]