Page 2 of The Villains of Winter

Barbarity as a means of art.

Barbarity as a means of pleasure.

Barbarity as a means of psychological discipline.

Highest of all, of course, was barbarity as a means of art.

After all, politics itself was a spectacle of art. Further than that–art itself was political.

Thus, politics and the arts were immutably intertwined.

To Elliott’s relief, the younger generations were indifferent to the lessons of ritual barbarity. They were indifferent even to the Ancient Classics. No longer were the youths interested in the philosophy of Aristotle or the tragedies of Aeschylus, but rather pop stars, influencers, streamers, and athletes. Anything that entertained them.

He felt safe in their myriad interests.

That afternoon, dozens of boys crowded the Northmen locker room for rugby try outs. The rowers packed in behind them, an atmosphere of sweat and grime emanating from them as they laughed and jostled each other.

Don’t stare at him. Don’t even glance at him, Elliott commanded himself. He felt his skin heat. He always knew when he was being watched.

James’s eyes roamed over the bruises, he ran his gaze across the small tears in the corner of Elliott’s eyes. Then he arched an eyebrow.

Elliott refused to look at him straight on, pretending instead to stare at the analogue clock mounted above him on the concrete walls. However, traitorously, his eyes slid down.

James locked eyes with him.

The electricity raised in the air between them whenever the older student’s eyes were on Elliott. It felt impossible to rip his gaze away first. It felt like shredding open part of his skin to expose his erratic pulse.

James Wilde had a way of gazing at him that left him vulnerable beneath his attention. Breathless.

By the time Elliott snapped out of it, the locker room emptied out.

Elliott tied his dirty sneakers before biology club. He packed his metal lunch box in his battered backpack. He rarely had any food in it, but he behaved as if it was full. His teachers were already concerned about his dysfunctional home life, and Elliott didn’t want to worry them. Mr. Newton had once given Elliott his old winter jacket to keep warm when no one was looking. He had left him a bundle of blankets after he found him sleeping in an abandoned car last year.

Elliott still wore the jacket, even in the spring. He joined the biology club that month, though Elliott was the only member. Mr. Newton’s field research of the Marlborough Mountains that he conducted after elk hunting season was Elliott’s favorite.

At fifteen years old, Elliott had only ever seen a deer killed in the woodlands of snowy Connecticut, he’d never seen someone take a life.

Maybe if Elliott hadn’t wandered near the wooded thickets of the whitewater rapids that afternoon…Maybe if he never treaded towards the headwaters of the rapids, he would’ve never run right into him. Elliott and James would’ve never stayed longer than they normally did.

They would’ve never witnessed their teacher’s murder.

CHAPTER TWO

ELLIOTT SOAKED HIS FACE IN the raw, briny headwater. The fresh spring breeze soughed through the spruces. The water was refreshingly cool against his skin. The squirrels, rabbits, and insects converged at the burbling waters for drink, as refined as the Baneburians, politely nibbling their sips. The moss-covered branches creaked beneath their tiny weight. That fateful afternoon, Elliott made the mistake of direct eye contact with him.

James wasn’t supposed to be there yet. It was as if the universe called him to punish Elliott. After all, Elliott had spent most of biology club sketching James from memory, but Elliott couldn’t help his hyperfixation. He wanted a new friend. He kept thinking if he obsessed over James Wilde enough, it might happen. He only couldn’t make it obvious. Don’t look at him straight on. Not in his eyes at least.

James Wilde was sixteen years old with magnetic, golden eyes and moonlit hair. At that moment, a strand of his strange, pure white hair fell between his eyes. Against his better judgment, Elliott ran his eyes over the rest of James.

His chest was taut and sun-tanned from a brisk swim in the rapids.

A spray of salt coated his neckline.

James stroked towards the edge of the water, and he rested his arms on the rocks, right before Elliott. He dripped coastal water onto Elliott’s backpack, but Elliott couldn’t bring himself to move. Even his winter jacket was forgotten behind him.

James broke their implicit contract to stare from a far and never speak to each other.

“You’re Elliott,” he began, knowingly. His hand grazed Elliott’s palm, sending a voltage of electricity through him. “Elliott the Nirvana drummer.”