John grinned magnanimously, dark eyes gentled in the light of late afternoon. "I thought never to see you again, return to me," he murmured, coaxing voice. "For a moment I thought I'd lost you, my friend."
Luther rested his weight against the tree trunk and folded his arms. "I didn't come here to see you," he growled. "I just had to get out of the house. I was agitated and ran outside to get some quiet. I came here to get some 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. "Come on. Sit for a while and we can discuss this. I promise I won't be such an idiot."
The forest smelled 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 some ancient stone guard.
So, John began with a silence, "come on, tell me 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 home. My dad and I, we've lived here as long as I can remember. 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 farmer, 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 tremendous sacrifices in order to bring me 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 name?"
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 mentions 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 me 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 something 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 ornament 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 time it was given only to the man who had emerged victorious after the hardest wars—those who became 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 me by my father. He has one, and I have one."
"Describe it to me," 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 embarrassment crossing his face. "It's just a simple Potara ring, like you see. My father is a merchant and a wanderer, nothing more." His voice was even, but something in the quick shift informed Luther there was more to it.
Luther caught the uncertainty and tilted his head. He's holding out on me, 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 some if you'd like."
"No, no. I was just complimenting 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 something, you can. You're my friend now, anyway."
Luther's smile wilted a little. "My dad doesn't like me to make friends or hang out with anyone," he said softly. "He's always telling me I should stay close to home." The words were small, almost sheepish.
John gazed at him for a moment, reading the seriousness in those words. He then went over and grasped Luther's hand, his own warm and solid. "Come 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 welcomed 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....