Fathoms

Alistair was alone with Emil. Even the air racing by him bemoaned this reality. The sides of the copper canyon rose above on either side, trying, but failing in their towering presence, to comfort him. They multiplied the sounds of their footsteps, but not even that illusion was enough to distract Alistair from the truth: he was alone, and what’s worse, he was alone with Emil.

Alistair stared into the back of Emil’s head as his chafed feet trudged on. Emil’s hair looked like a kindergartner had cut it, with lengths of hair varying and locks stuck at odd, inexplicable angles. Alistair hated it, and he hated that Emil knew he had done a terrible job.

“Why?” he had asked Emil. “Why not just shave it?”

Emil had smiled a little wider—he was always smiling since it happened –and answered, “Because, it’s the second best haircut in the world. The grand title I leave for you, my dear brother.”