9. Ryan
9
Ryan
The clay squelches in my massive hands, collapsing inwards for the second time today.
Why do they insist I take pottery, of all things?
Cyclops, historically, have been blacksmiths and weapons masters. I suppose pottery feels like the opposite of that, with how gentle you have to be. That must be why the Academy wants me to learn it, to embrace a more delicate side of myself, but there is nothing delicate about me.
I am brute strength with no grace. A monster meant to destroy the beautiful.
But as I take a deep breath, throw the clay back on the wheel, and start again, I remind myself that I wanted this. I chose to come here. I shouldn’t fight the process.
Back home, I never fit in with the rest of our clan. Reading didn’t come easily for me, but I worked hard to learn so I could educate myself. I always felt I was meant for more than the hamlet I grew up in. I wasn’t sure what, but I knew I’d get there if I studied enough. I wanted to get a job doing something that made a difference, but our schools left a lot to be desired, and it was expected of me to take over the family business as soon as I finished.
So I gave up my dreams and told my father I’d work alongside him until he deemed me worthy of taking it all over.
I tried. I did.
But when push came to shove, I couldn’t. I became the shame of my family and fled, leaving me no option but the Academy.
“I don’t think I can do this,” I tell my father, taking a few steps back and hitting the wall. I knew what the business entailed, but knowing it and doing it yourself are two entirely different things. “Please, Father, don’t make me do this.”
He rolls his massive eye at me before his face twists into a sneer. I have been told my whole life that I look just like him, except I have my mother’s eye, but I don’t see it when he wears that expression. Lately, that’s more often than not.
“You need to toughen up, boy. You’re a pathetic excuse for a Cyclops.” He throws the butcher knife at my feet. It lands heavy with the weight of my father’s ill intentions. “Get it done.”
I stare at the massive blade’s wooden handle as it rests on the straw-covered ground. I can see the edge of my face reflected in its surface, twisted and distorted in a taunt.
“This is who I’m supposed to be,” I say to myself, staring at my reflection in the blade. I watch my father stomp out of the barn, clench my fists, and try to force my spine rigid.
“This is what is expected of me.”
My parents always wanted me to be more.
More brutal.
More aggressive.
More brave.
More.
More.
More.
And at the same time, they want me to be less.
Less studious.
Less gentle.
Less kind.
Less.
A constant push and pull between who I am and who they think I should be.
More of a male.
Less of a weakling.
More of a Cyclops.
Less of a shame.
The calf’s glassy black eyes stare into my soul from the back of its stall as I bend to pick up the knife.
“There have to be more humane ways to do this,” I say quietly. I have done nothing, and yet my hands feel coated in sticky blood. “I don’t want to hurt you, little guy.”
He bleats at me as I approach, the knife weighing me down with indecision.
Dairy cows must have calves to continue producing milk. Male calves do not have much value, except for the few that get raised as studs to keep the cycle going.
That’s where my family comes in. Where we’ve make our living.
We purchase the male calves between four and six months of age, slaughter them, package their meat, and sell it for a premium.
Veal.
It’s not that I have a problem with eating meat. I don’t really.
But I don’t know if I’m capable of doing this.
But what choice do I have?
This is who I am supposed to be.
This is what a Cyclops does.
I don’t have a choice.
I take another step towards the calf and drop to my knees.
In the end, I didn’t end up killing the calf.
I lost my family’s respect, and it was the last straw. They told me if I wasn’t going to be a proper Cyclops, I could go live amongst the Authentics.
Of course, I stuck out like a sore thumb and struggled to find a place that would hire me. Prejudice against supernaturals is everywhere, and I have no hope of blending in and passing as an Authentic. In the end, I applied for a scholarship here and was swiftly accepted.
At least as a simplynatural, I’ll be able to keep a roof over my head. With that title, doors will open for me despite my appearance.
The instructor signals the end of class and I carry my misshapen pot over to the table for her to fire in the kiln. Clay is beginning to dry under my nails, and I take my time scrubbing and cleaning them. I hate the texture it leaves behind if I’m not meticulous in washing. By the time I’m done, I’m the last one to leave the classroom.
“Big guy!” Stella says with surprise when I turn the corner, nearly barreling her over.
“Stella! I’m sorry!” I exclaim as I grab her shoulders. “I didn’t see you there. I apologize. I was a bit in my head.” She’s not short for a female, but she barely comes up to my chest.
I like how small she feels in my grip.
“No apologies needed.” She pats one of my hands before wiggling out of my grasp and falling into step beside me. “What had you all zoned out?”
For a moment, I think of telling her it was nothing and distracting her with questions about her day like I did when we first talked about my family. But when she turns that crooked smile at me, I want to tell her the truth.
Stella is not what I would have expected in the best of ways. I feel a draw to her that is inexplicable. I have never felt an interest in a female before. This is not to say that I had a lot of options – there were few in my hamlet, and of course, an Authentic female would have no interest in me. But Stella is stirring a beast that seems to live within me. I want to grab her, hold her tightly against me, and never let her go.
The protectiveness I feel over her is shocking.
There is no part of me that wants to lie to her.
“My family. We didn’t always get on, and I doubt they would agree with my choice to come here.”
“That must be hard. What’s their issue?” Her wings tuck in tight as a demon slips by. The male gives her a dirty look before rolling his eyes. She doesn’t seem to notice and relaxes them the moment he passes.
We step out of the academic building into the front courtyard. In the distance, the unity fountain glints in the sunlight. The weather is nice today, with a light breeze ruffling Stella’s brown hair, which she’s wearing down around her shoulders. A faintly floral scent is carried on the wind as I trail behind her.
“They wanted me to take over the family business. I wasn’t cut out for it, and they took that personally.”
Despite the scarce details, Stella doesn’t pry for more. She slips her arm through mine, linking elbows, even though it puts her arm at an upward angle that must be uncomfortable. The movement causes my emotions to build in my throat, making my voice come out thicker than normal.
She’s claiming me. Where everyone can see.
“Anyways,” I clear my throat, “I never really fit into Cyclops culture as it was. My clan was small and quite insular, and I grew up knowing that I wasn’t like the others.”
Stella tugs my arm until we both sprawl out on the grass in front of the fountain before releasing my elbow. She leans back on her hands, the sun making her brown hair reflect some honey tones and warming the lengths of her legs exposed by her tiny black denim shorts.
“It’s okay to be different,” she reminds me. “Variety is the spice of life and all.”
I snort at her cheesy proverb. “Not to Cyclops. I was always considered a bit too … precious.”
“Gemstones are precious.”
“Cyclops are not rare and beautiful gems.” My fingers dig into the grass beside me as I look anywhere but the Valkyrie. “We are blades and boulders. Brute power and ruthlessness. We are not gentle or kind or beautiful.”
“And what am I?” Stella’s words are sharp, yanking me out of my pity spiral. “I am blades and brutality too. We are not so different, you and I.”
She places her hand on top of mine. It is not soft or delicate. Her hands are callused and strong, evidence of the inclination her spirit has towards physical activity and manual labor.
“Ryan, I haven’t known you long, but in the time I have, I think I’ve learned something about you.” I finally bring my eye to hers and see the sweetest smile on her face. “You are gentle and kind. And there is so much strength in that.” She shoulder-checks me gently. “And you’re pretty easy on the eyes, big guy.”
I know she’s just saying that to cheer me up, but I appreciate it nonetheless.
We sit in a comfortable silence, soaking up the sun as I work up the nerve to tell her I think she’s precious, too, until a large figure casts a shadow over us.
“You’re new, aren’t you, Valkyrie?”
I’ve never seen this male before. His voice is deep and resonant, and it has an edge of violence that I don’t like. I sit up a little straighter to get a better look at him.
But he only has eyes for Stella.
Stella gives an unladylike grunt as an affirmative response.
“I’m Wyatt. I’m a Berserker.”
Stella tilts her head to the side and examines the male. He’s broad, with a warrior build indicative of his spirit. Berserkers are said to be so violent and deadly that they go into a trance-like rage when they fight. When Stella told me her father was a Berserker, I expected her to follow up with tales of how he abused her and her mother growing up. I was shocked when she spoke of him with love and affection.
Despite how few of them there are, their actions have had such a negative impact that their reputation proceeds them.
She climbs to her feet and holds out her hand to the male. “Stella. Nice to meet you.” He clasps her hand in his. “And this is my friend Ryan.”
He steadfastly ignores me.
“I can’t tell you how excited I was when I learned that you were here. There are so few of you left.” He crosses his arms over his chest as he rakes his eyes down Stella’s frame. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how compatible Valkyrie and Berserkers are.”
“No, you don’t, considering that’s my parent’s spirit pairing, but uh… I’m unsure why this is a conversation we’re having when I don’t even know if you put the cap back on the toothpaste after you brush your teeth.”
“You don’t,” I hiss at her. “There’s always toothpaste all over your side of the counter.”
“That’s why I need someone who does, big guy,” she says under her breath. “So they can pick up after me.”
Wyatt doesn’t drop his aggressive stance and swings his glare at me. Whatever he was looking for, he doesn’t find, because he rolls his eyes and turns his body to block me from the conversation.
“Let me walk you to dinner, Valkyrie.”
Stella’s wings shoot out at the same time she takes a step towards the Berserker, poking him in the chest. “I am more than my spirit.”
“Never said you weren’t,” he snaps, taking a step towards her, forcing her elbow to bend. “You’re free to call me Berserker.”
She scoffs and crosses her arms. “I’ll do no such thing, Wyatt. You know my name. Use it. If you want to ask me to dinner because you’d like to get to know me, Stella, then use my name. But if it’s because I’m a Valkyrie and we’re biologically compatible or whatever, get lost.“ Venom drips from her voice, and I immediately take a step closer to her flank.
She does not need me to protect her, but it’s an unconscious movement on my part to position myself behind her in support.
“Aren’t you feisty,” he taunts, and I decide that I really can’t stand this male.
“Terribly.”
His grin turns feral. “I like that.” He takes a step back and shoves his hands into his pockets. “You’re new here, Valkyrie, so I’m going to give you some time to get settled, but you know where this will end up. I’ll grow on you.”
“Yeah, like a fungus!” she shouts at his retreating back.
“A fungus?” I ask as she starts to stalk off toward our tower aggressively.
“Ugh, I know, it was so corny. I was so busy repeating ‘you can’t throw him he’s also a warrior spirit’ in my head that I ended up sounding like a five-year-old.”
“I’m not sure many youngsters would know about the germination of fungus, but I understand your sentiment.”