Boys of the Fellwood
I take my vambraces off first. The armored plates tear the flesh from my wrists when I rip them free. The armor is hard as tough old fingernails, but my hands beneath are soft and puckered red with scabs. Still, they are free.
* * *
I was among the last in the village to grow my armor, nearly seventeen by the time my helm came in. The other boys teased my bare face, exposed to the sky. I was secretly glad to feel the wind on my brow. And the helmet ached when it sprouted from my skull, a single plate stretched tight over the crown of my head. Tight enough to block out my dreams. I haven’t had one since.
Don’t worry, my father told me. The faceplate flips up.
* * *
My body burns beneath the armor, an unreachable itch. Until now. I scratch my liberated hands raw, then I bury the vambraces in the rock-choked soil. Flies flit near, lapping at the blood. The Fellwood is heavy with them. More will come, along with worse things. I mop up my blood so the ghouls will not smell me. I cannot return until I kill one. Until I bring back a prize.
* * *
The day I left for the Fellwood, my mother wept as she kissed my forehead. Just as she had kissed my brother. My brother who did not return. I wanted her to beg me to stay, but when I clung to our hug she shoved me away.
I confessed my fear to my father.
The faceplate flips down, he said.
When I trudged toward the wood, Vale called out to me. Perhaps if you return, we’ll get married.
‘Perhaps if you return’ was all I heard. My plated boots left footprints a size too large behind me. I couldn’t help but think, those are not my feet.
* * *
I still do not recognize my footsteps as I wander the Fellwood. Sometimes I think I am being followed. The anxiety subsides when I rip off the boots.
I relish the squelch of mud against my aching soles. I laugh at the cute, rounded impressions my toes leave in the soil, so unlike the flat grind of a bootheel.
My mother would cry if she knew, but she is not here. Only the other knights wandering the wood in armor in shades of ocher, umber, and coal. I call out my brother’s name. If they respond, I cannot hear through my helm. Just as I cannot feel the brush of leaves on my shoulders, nor the wind at my back. I don’t even hear the snap of a branch as the ghoul leaps.
* * *
The night before I left, Vale and I snuck to a field without monsters, save for bull toads which croaked loud as drownlings. I did not tell her I wished to stay. Instead, I turned my faceplate up so we could kiss. She squeezed her warm face inside my helm.
It’s frustrating kissing through that, said Vale. Makes me want to shimmy in there.
There’s no room.
She laid back on the grass. Do you feel the wind?
Only on my cheeks.
Take the armor off, then.
I cannot. After a pause, I said, I flipped up the faceplate for you.
It’s not enough.
The codpiece unscrews.
I need more than that.
This is the life of a knight.
She sighed and left me there. I stayed, allowing the wind to sneak under my faceplate as I crushed the grass and toadstools beneath me.
* * *
The ghoul tackles me, snapping and tearing at my throat, digging for flesh. The beast does not look how I imagined. Spines march down its back and fangs jut from sawtooth jaws, but its form is not completely strange, and its hide is tough. Tough as gnarled old fingernails tinted a dark ochre.
I fear what I would find inside if I cut it open. So I do not. I simply hack with my axe until it stills. I claim the ghoul’s claw. Proof that I have braved the Fellwood.
When I return, my mother cries at my bare hands and feet. The claw, my prize, clinks against my waist, but they hardly notice the trophy. My father slaps down his faceplate.
That night I tear off my breastplate piece by piece so I can feel Vale’s heartbeat against mine. I meet her in the field at dark. She helps me remove my gorget, exposing my throat. Vale kisses my raw and flaking neck for the first time. There you are, she says with every kiss. There you are. There you are.
I do not tell Vale about the ghoul. When we have drank our fill of the stars, I leave the claw behind. I should have cut the ghoul open, I realize. What if he was inside.
The other knights shake their heads when they see my bare chest, my hands and feet, small without their armor. They do not raise their faceplates. I wonder if they even can. I wonder if their armor will thicken, if spines will sprout from their backs and claws from their gauntlets. I call out my brother’s name to them. They do not answer.
I promise myself I will return to the Fellwood. I will tear free the fleshy things I know to live inside the beasts. I will let them feel the wind on their skin again.
But I will feel it first.
I remove my helmet last. It takes patches of scalp with it. I think I delayed this final piece because I was scared to reveal my bare body to the sky, all scabbed and bleeding. I did not want to show it what I’ve done with the boy I was.
I should have known better.
The wind sweeps around me, tickling my bare skin. I imagine it is saying, there you are, there you are, there you are.
