Halvard is already in bed when Henrik walks up the stairs, weary from the day, heading to the bathroom to brush his teeth and change into his nightclothes. Halvard ignores him, deeply engrossed within a story that leaps across the pages of the soft covered novel within his hands. The spine is bent and worn and the pages folded, but the content makes up for its battered appearance.
Halvard doesn't like the way new books smell, anyway.
A long time ago, I wondered if I was even supposed to be birthed into this world. My differences, as slight as they were, made me an outcast. And when your social circles feel dry and cold—when none of them really fit you—you try to move on into a new way of life, but you can't leave your individuality behind.
Henrik sighs and crawls into bed, lying back on the pillows with his eyes closed before retrieving a different book from his bedside table. He's further into his than Halvard's, but his has less pages, so he figures they're about even. But Henrik decides that it's not really a fair comparison since the books they have chosen are entirely different in subject matter and style. But that's just the way things are.
Different but together.
But then I began to realize that there were other people like me. Other people that were different, that felt abandoned, who felt lonely even in the presence of friends and family. People whose hearts had fled and had been unwillingly picked up and stolen by ghosts in the night. The hearth wasn't in the correct home, and without a fire to warm their souls, they became frigid.
Halvard looks up at one point and mentions how he's glad they're sleeping in the same bed, again. They had been apart for so long that Henrik's side of the bed had begun to no longer carry his scent, which Halvard had missed deeply.
Something about the way you smelled was different to me. You smelled like the earth and I smelled like the sea. And then I met the other ones who all looked different and felt different. These lost people stood differently, ate differently, talked differently. And as foreign as their lips were, we could understand something that was nonverbal and entirely felt from within.
Henrik puts down his book after reading another chapter and closes his eyes, lying back down and turning over onto his side so that he can fall asleep.
"You're getting older," Halvard says, carefully folding the page of his book to mark his spot.
"What dya mean?"
Halvard runs his hand through Henrik's hair. "I see gray. You're becoming an old man."
"I guess."
You tried to prove to me that you were strong, that you could take care of yourself and protect your friends, that you didn't need anyone to help you, but you were wrong.
Halvard turns out the light and buries himself under the sheets for warmth, shutting his eyes and drifting off into the realm of sleep.
Strength is not a blazing chariot decorated in gold, inlayed with jewels, with blood on the wheels and axel and shaft. It is not the sword or gunpowder that pierces the lion's hide and gladly eats up land, claiming everything as its own just to create a strong empire.
"…Halle?"
"What?"
"You know, you have gray hair too."
"Just go to bed, Henrik," Halvard says, knowing full well of the effect time has had on both of them.
Strength is rather a young girl who is not afraid to stick her hand down the throat of a beast and stares into its wild eyes. Strength is knowing yourself and your limits, knowing confidence, and knowing when to drop your arms in defeat and surrender gracefully. Even if your body is weak, if your mind is strong, you can make it through.
"It doesn't matter to me," Henrik states, and he draws himself closer to Halvard's body so that they can leech off of one another's heat throughout the night and warm each other's ancient bones.
Time heals all wounds.
