Raliegh was imprinted onto his skin. It kept him going, held him up, stood behind him like a faithful wife or angel.

And like an angel, eventually Raleigh became paper thin and made of gossamer. It came to Clay only in dreams or worship. Sweat sprung up along his hairline and his knees became acquainted with the floor beneath. He would hold his hands in prayer and Raleigh would keep them clasped together.

He thought of Raleigh like faith, rock-strong in your heart but intangible elsewhere. It wasn't real anymore. He neglected to visit.

Old relationships died. Friends were swept under rugs and family was left to wonder where he was. His convertible, once a totem of success, sat dusty under a pile of rags. Leafy suburbs and clever children faded from his memory.

2. When he could finally no longer go home, he went to Bergen.

Clay fled the fame. The guilt. The truth. And when he arrived, he was just as confused as ever, but with the help of drink, so much lighter.

Bergen was large and loud and he slipped in unnoticed. Community alluded him. He was in no frame of mind to start anew. All he wanted was to float - in time, in space, in memory. Suspended, he would hang above the bustling crowd.

The center of the city beckoned with crooked fingers, saying "You have nothing to fear from us, you have nothing to run from" and he obeyed.

Bergen mastered him quickly, the city learning his likes and dislikes like a girl reading the pages of Seventeen Magazine. Opportunities presented. He looked away. Homecoming shows were announced. He did not want to learn why anyone would return. He'd lost his sense of self, though Bergen struggled ceaselessly to hand it back to him.

Eventually familiarities appeared. The scene, the harbor, the wooden houses; they began to lose their sharp edges and went soft with nostalgia. He no longer noticed peculiarities.

3. So at first he didn't notice Sondre.

Being the prodigy son of his own hometown, he didn't take any notice of this peculiar prodigy - precocious to the western world - from Bergen. His thoughts of himself took time and energy. He ignored the rest.

But Bergen longed to open its closed fist to him, spread out its fingers and display Sondre on the flat of its palm. Show him that he was not the only one. That he had a common thread from which to hang. And as an end result, claim him as Bergen's own.

Eventually it happened. Seeing Sondre was like revisiting his own self, years back. Someone defined by their town, their people, their songs. Here Sondre was, head thrown back, feet spread apart - in a facsimile of rapture, playing the guitar. He sang like a animal - or human not in control of his pain. Clay looked on in wonder, in confusion, in bright-eyed amazement. His identity was lost - was this a vision of where it had gone?

4. Time passed. He grew.

His legs were longer, built for speed; chasing the boy from coast to coast and keeping up. His hair was longer, spilling over his eyes and shading him from sideline sight. His fingers stretched to encompass all of their love. Sondre kept him like a beloved pet, and he learned new tricks. He learned to use their time together as a building block for a new future. Keeping mementos from every trip, he mapped out a new past.

Mornings and evenings blended together under a perfect sun, a saintly moon. The bedroom misted over with breath and scent and the windows fogged. The harbor toddled along beside their house, bringing industry to a otherwise unproductive day.

Letters arrived and Clay couldn't muster the desire to open them. After all, what could be said by Raleigh that he hadn't heard already? He waited on tip-toe for new words, wise and beautiful, from Sondre.

--



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