Chương 35: Vol 1. An Amiable Conversation: Part 2

Morton licked his lips in thought. He grinned from the corner of his mouth. Then he asked, "How'd ya' become a cyclops?"

"A what?" Korra asked.

"You know," Morton said, pointing to his eyes.

"How'd ya' lose an eye?"

"Well, that certainly is a very personal question." Morton shrugged.

"You said you wanted honesty, and I'll be right honest with ya': that question has been naggin' at me since I saw ya'."

"You are not the only one," Korra said.

"Many find my appearance to be unsettling."

"Oh, I ain't afraid of it," Morton said.

"Good Lord, it looks hella cool! Looks like proof somebody tried real hard to kill ya' and failed." Korra looked away from Morton, instead focusing her remaining eye on the brilliant, dancing flames. They almost looked like people, if you squinted hard enough.

"That is one way to look at it," Korra said.

"A warrior is an honourable profession, but it is not one that comes with handsomeness like stories would have you believe." She then leaned forward.

"But really, you do not find my… deformity to be startling in any way?" Korra's ear twitched. Her paw drifted unconsciously towards the empty socket, stopping just before she touched it. His delight… she did not know how to feel about it.

"Why would I?" Morton asked incredulously.

"And don't say that. I actually think it makes ya' look real pretty… or, uh, would handsome be the more correct term?" Korra's claws subtly retracted.

"Was that mockery?"

"No, no, God, no. I am serious. That scar makes ya' right handsome. Like, uh… Tommy Flanagan! He was a handsome fellow, if you ask me." Korra's claws slowly slotted back into their sheaths.

"I do not have anything for reference to verify that claim regarding that, uh… Tommy Flanagan person, but…" She sighed and looked to her right.

"You are the first person besides my husband to tell me my scar is not hideous and horrifying to look at." Morton shrugged.

"Most people couldn't see beauty if it hit them right on the head."

"I do not disagree."

"And honestly, it ain't even that scary-lookin'. I've seen a lot worse injuries in my day." Morton looked away for a moment, coughed, then said, "Point is, ma'am, missin' an eye don't make somebody frightening. What people choose to do to one another—now that, miss, that is what frightens me tremendously." Morton's grin faded. His thumb rubbed slowly along the edge of his porcelain cup.

"I knew a kid, a… Moses A. John. I met him at an abandoned outpost near what was once a city called Dallas. Now, he was a good kid, a real good kid, one of the nicest I've ever met. But you see, his skin there—he was a Black man—and the Nazi bastards—uh, people who don't like people who aren't their skin colour—around Dallas, they didn't take too kindly to him tryin' to rob their outpost, and so…"

His voice became flatter and wavery, each word having to be forced out as if he were not telling the story of his own free will, and his jaw tightened.

"—oh, good God! —they had strapped him down and carved up his face, plucked out his eyes, and torn off each of his fingers. Just despicable, and those Nazi bastards…"

"They mutilated him merely because his skin was darker?" Morton's tea had gone fully untouched.

"That, and because they were evil sons of bitches."

"I do not understand, though… Why would you direct anger at someone for how their skin looks? I cannot recall myself ever caring what another's fur pattern was like."

"Hate, you see, it ain't a rational thing." Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

"I will have to mildly disagree," Korra said, "but I understand what you are saying. Hatred like that is not particularly honourable."

"Damn right! And so I knew what I had to do with them—""What did you do to them?"

"I killed 'em." The fire popped sharply in an almost intentional fashion.

"Scum like that… ugh, I can't stand 'em. Especially those who harm the innocent. There was a man from my homeland, long, long ago, before my daddy and his daddy and his daddy and so on and so on, named John Brown. And John Brown, why, he was a real man of faith, a great man of faith, and our Good Book—the Lord above does tell us that we shouldn't kill—but people like that, they ain't with the Lord. They're bad, bad people, and John knew that; he knew what we needed to do with men like that."

Korra looked him up and down, studying Morton's body. She still couldn't read him well, but she was quickly picking up on his mannerisms. She then stared into the murky green liquid inside her cup. She had not been drinking it very quickly, and the water was starting to become cold.

"Your homeland appears to produce exceptionally cruel men."

"Indeed," Morton said.

"I loved it to death, but even before… that, it certainly wasn't heaven on earth."

"It is also interesting that all the people involved in that story were men," Korra said.

"Knew you were gonna focus on that," Morton said with a sigh.

"But never mind that for now. I did say we would go question for question, so I will tell you how I lost my eye." Korra watched him for several seconds. Anger directed not at weakness, she thought, or at deformity or difference, but at those who preyed openly on the weak. If that story was true, which she was still somewhat doubting, then she could say Morton had a feminine honour to him, at least a little bit. Korra sat back in the armchair, crossed her arms, and cleared her throat.

"I was… I want to say sixteen, probably closer to fifteen, but, for the sake of consistency, let us go with sixteen. You see, Sir Christian, I have wielded a sword for as long as I can remember. My first sparring session was with my mentor at five years old, and I had joined an amateur guard corps at twelve, well before I became a full adult at fifteen. I worked my way up; I ground every day; I practised; I went without pay; I kept going, and I kept going.

I cleaned armour, stood outside on long, hibernal nights freezing my tail off, and let women twice my size knock me into the mud until I learned how to get them down there first. I remember that when I slept in the barracks, others poured water on me as a form of mockery. I never disclosed my royal status to them. I needed to earn everything, not have it handed to me simply by having a winning bloodline. I was mocked relentlessly.

But I just kept going, and soon"—she put one paw theatrically against her breast—"I joined the Queen's Guard! Oh, as a young warrior, I was so ecstatic, so overcome with happiness and joy. My paws had been trembling inside my gauntlets. I had rehearsed the oath so many times that, even today, I could probably recite it backwards, and yet, when I finally knelt before the throne, every word had vanished from my head. That was incredibly embarrassing. I remember distinctly when I first saw her.

"I am unsure whether you are familiar, Sir Christian, but our Queen, until… recently, very recently, when she finally succumbed to what we will all have to face one day, was the oldest Kharani ever, outside of the prophets, and their ages—you need to take those numbers strictly on faith alone.

"Queen Nevereth. She had been Caelrune by blood, but little else about her resembled that nest of dishonourable schemers. She was a warrior, and she ruled as one, for the most part. But yes, I had gone to her castle to officially join her guard. The throne chamber seemed impossibly large then, its vaulted ceiling disappearing into shadow. Every step of my boots echoed across the polished stone, and the veteran guards lining the walls watched me so still, without moving a single ear.

"I had knelt before the throne, my head down as far as it could go, and she told me to look up. I did. Even back then, she was already showing her advanced age of forty-two: her fur was entirely greyed in a way that was clearly not natural; her eyesight was bad, really bad; her spectacles were thicker than my wrist; her paws were so frail; and she smelled of the medicinal herbs that the elderly love to take. But when she placed a paw upon me, I smiled hugely. It was magical." Korra sighed.

"I remember her body looking so frail, but her voice certainly was not. It was still oh-so gruff, feminine, and commanding, and when she spoke, it carried through the chamber with the same intensity as a battle horn. She wore her old battle armour, so worn and rusty, yet polished to the best of the servants' abilities. And when I looked up at her, she smiled at me and called me a young warrior. I cannot describe how fast my heart was beating.

"I feel… Well, I did promise you complete honesty, and I will keep my word on that: I feel stupid for how I felt back then. I had believed, in that moment, that nothing could touch me. I was mightier than the Great Mother herself. I had been chosen by the greatest warrior-queen in living memory. I was sixteen, and therefore I was immortal."

Morton listened as he drank from his cup—he had waited too long to really start drinking it, so the water was fully cold—and balanced it against one knee, occasionally nodding, though his brows slowly began to lift as Korra drifted further from the point.

"Listen, that's great," Morton said, "but what does any of that gotta do with your eye?"

"Sorry," Korra said.

"I was getting a little nostalgic there for a moment."

"Also," Morton said, "could I get a little more tea?"

"Of course," Korra said. She finished drinking her cup, then poured more hot water into both of their cups and let the leaves steep.

"Give it a couple of moments, Sir Christian; it is usually best, flavour-wise, around the three- or four-minute mark."

"Sure," Morton said lazily.

"By the way, you said we ain't usin' formalities, right?"

"Correct," Korra said.

"I don't know, miss. Ya' keep callin' me 'Sir.'""Old habits die hard," Korra said with a shrug.

"Is there any special way your people greet each other informally?"

"Just Morton will do," Morton said with a tip of his hat. She looked away from Morton for a moment, then stared directly at him.

"Morton, are you familiar with orcs?"