The God's Game

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River slammed the door behind him and locked it with difficulty. The key slipped out of his trembling fingers as sobs raked through him. Tears blurred the world around him, and his frustration only grew when the key kept missing the hole. Once the latch clicked into place and he was safe inside his gloomy cabin room, he laid at the foot of his bed and allowed himself a good cry.

River curled on the cold,oaken floor, hugging his knees to his chest as tears ran in steady streams and soaked into his hair. He grudgingly rubbed the heels of his palms on the rims of his eyes, angry and disgusted at his own display of weakness. Laboured breaths echoed off the walls, back at him,as if mocking him.

The sound of the waves lapping over each other and the distant, hushed murmur of people soothed him down from his tantrum after a short while. He crouched on the floor and stared at a spot on the wall emptily, listening to his own pulse in his ears.

His shoulder was throbbing. He was exhausted.

Raven Alistair was mad at him.

River despised how effortlessly Raven Alistair and his seemingly idiotic words could unravel him.

River was way too prideful to admit it to the man. Sometimes it was the biting words or the venomous tone he would say them in, but he always seemed to find a way to cut him open like a filleted fish. With resentment, River realized it hurt because he was right.

When he said that no one loved him, it was the truth. When he said that he was tired of taking care of him,that was not a lie.

River rubbed his runny nose on the cotton sleeve, ignoring how it left a wet, slimy stain on the fabric. His face was sticky with tears. Fine strands of liquid ink hair clung to his rosy cheeks and made them itchy. In the darkness of the cabin, his azure eyes sparkled like gemstones on a riverbed. He wiped them with the back of his hand, trying to rid the curtain of thick lashes of their lingering wetness. Licking his lips,he tasted the salt on them.

Crying because Raven was mad at him was utterly nonsensical, but it has become a routine response. A heavy sigh escaped River's reddened lips, and it eased the weight on his chest a little.

How very laughable! The man was mad at everyone. All the time. His brain must be water-clogged to cry over him.

A soft knock echoed through the cabin room, interrupting his self-pitying session. River hastily gave his miserable face a wipedown with the hem of his shirt and cleared his strained throat. Though his attempts did little to mask the traces of his previous bawling, he rose and unlocked the door. The polite knock hinted at only one possible visitor.

Just as he expected, Aithan Alistair stepped over the threshold into the cabin. He carried in a wooden tray cradling a fancy glass teapot with a warm blue drink and a covered porcelain bowl emitting the comforting aroma of his signature porridge dish. He looked lost for a second as they made awkward eye contact—blurred blue meeting bright gold.

“I’ll come later, yes?” He set the tray cautiously on the table and turned to leave.