Notes scrawled along the margin of a particularly battered copy of West of the River: Children’s folk tales, revised, ripped out, date unknown.
In the days when the continent was unified, and the Murko did not sever the land in two, creatures roamed with freedom.
They roamed the foothills and valleys, savannahs and coats, conifer forests and mountain ranges. The land was theirs and theirs alone – dragons set forests ablaze, slit-pupiled eyes flickered out in the darkness, bat-like creatures glided to and fro.
(bat-like implies duskers. Doc will be pleased)
The world was a wild place, full of towering, ancient trees, curling thorns and brambles.
And, amongst the landscape of chaos and claws and fangs and flora, creatures of all temperaments thrived.
One such creature, who made his home in the nooks and crannies of valleys and sand, a tumbledown wasteland, was the Monster. A sly, sharp-witted, sharper tongued lizard.
(the Monster is awful. It’s any wonder he’s a part of the royal seal)
West of the wasteland, spruce and pine and snow-capped trees, tucked in between mountains and hillocks and ravines, covered the land. And, nestled in this grove, lived the Moose – all gangly limbs and stubbed horns and wide-eyed innocence, a creature too young to be any real danger.
One day, wandering the wilds, these two beasts – one vicious, one tender – crossed paths, like ships passing in the night.
They kicked up pebbles as they ambled, side by side.
The Monster hissed, “My young friend, you’ve traveled quite far.”
“Indeed, I have.”, replied the Moose, if a little too cheerfully. When the Monster seemed to grimace, he hardly noticed.
“Well, it must be fierce so far North. One needs to be, well, strong – I can only imagine.” His eyes flashed the gold of coins. His words were honey-sweet on his venomous tongue, “Stronger than most, I suspect.”
“Well, I suppose,” replied the Moose, “But, strength certainly isn’t everything.”
“No?” The Monster hisses, perplexed. Strength, he thinks, is the only thing worth holding onto – by whatever means necessary.
The Moose is still amicable, “Of course not. Devoting yourself solely to strength is a fool’s errand. It will only lead to suffering, to hone yourself in one way.”
The Monster huffs a sound, somehow between sigh and laugh, “I’ll take your word for it, little one.”
(Strength is hardly worth that much. The political climate of this country would disagree.)
And, they depart from each other.
When they meet again, in spring, the Moose is grown – towering, hulking, and, yet, moving with grace. And, the Monster, no bigger, looks at the proud crown that is the Moose’s antlers and feels longing – violent, vicious longing for security beyond the venom in his bite.
The Moose moves carefully along the ground, his hooves finding new grooves and dips. He murmurs, “The land is changing. We should do well to welcome it.”
The Monster hums, absently, “How?”
“Well, change is a good thing, my friend. Change leads to better things down the road.”
The Monster, again, eyes those horns, “Are you speaking from experience, dear friend?”
“Indeed,” says the Moose with a laugh.
And, they depart again, slipping away from each other – one satisfied, the other hungry.
When they find each other again, they do not stand side by side. They must shout over the roar of the river – not that they speak. It is a new thing, a rapidly growing and equally raging, roaring thing.
The Monster only gives long looks, looks full of grief, need, want, visceral anger.
The Moose seems compassionate, now more than ever.
He has not – has never – seen what the Monster is; and he is just that, a monster.
One night, the dreams, the thoughts, the pacing – it becomes too much. The Monster goes from the desert to the spring and, in a fit of desperation, in a downpour, leaps across the river.
He flies forward, claws scrabbling on the bank – and his claws miss. They do not find purchase. He falls, hissing and spitting, screaming and writhing.
Floating out to sea, he is never seen again.
And the Moose – the Moose grieves. He knows.
He knows.
(the Monster is a creature we should have left in the sea. No such luck.)
❂
June 16th, 1906
My dear friend,
How I long to see you again. I know it has not been long, thanks to my seeing family, but I still wish to speak with you. And, not just through letters.
I yearn to speak to you in person once more, to laugh until I can barely breathe, to sit together and discuss the latest in literature or science. Whatever strikes your fancy, I don’t mind, so long as we just talk.
Speaking of literature, little hare, the Sturrish have been in a frenzy as of late, over some horror tale. Recently, it was translated into Aulnian. I’m tempted to read it, myself, only to see how easily the Isle folk find themselves flustered.
Apparently, it involves a specter haunting a city – in the sense of living in the dusty rafters of a theater. I wonder if it will be as good as the translated version of the story about the homunculus and hubris and the dangers of science that we both enjoyed so much. I can only hope.
On the topic of famous Isle authors, they’re re-printing those romances I know you adore, despite your insistence otherwise. Not in Kergazini yet – at least, not for the population of the country on a whole. The nobles should have no problem enjoying the new editions.
I look forward to the next meeting we have, as I should have much to discuss. I take it you will, too.
Yrs,
A. Lorens
June 19th, 1906
Lorens,
I’d hold my breath about that horror piece. They only tend to be so good. Do let me know.
And, yes, you know full well I’m only indifferent towards those novels, loved as they are. But, a newer edition being published could have me singing a different tune.
I’m not saying you should purchase it, but I wouldn’t mind reading one of these editions myself. Perhaps the enrichment center will have a copy, eventually. No need to spend coin so recklessly.
I also want to see you again, soon. I’ve missed that wry, merry spark in your eyes.
Humbly,
T. Fernsby
July 22nd, 1906
To my most frustrating friend,
I have told you time and time again that you do not need to buy me things, to win me over with how you spend your coin. You won me over with your wit, first and foremost.
I’m serious, Asteri, it’s completely unnecessary – a waste, truly.
I mean, it must’ve cost a good fifteen, twenty coins. It’s a heavy thing. Lovely, too, loathe as I am to admit it.
I thank you, despite you knowing how I feel about the novels themselves.
You are much too kind, Lorens. Always too kind.
Thankful and miffed,
T. Fernsby
July 26th, 1906,
Darling,
You insist you are made sour – near-maddened – by my choices. But, I know how you love those books – how eagerly you devour them.
I’ve heard from Rad – and seen myself – how you get whenever you reread one, just how excitable and passionate. How open. I know you kick your feet, dearest. I know you giggle.
You try to hide it, but we both know that behind all that stoicism, you’re soft, dear. One could even say a hopeless romantic. Not that I could blame you.
Until we meet again – and until I invoke your ire next,
A. Lorens
❂
April 12th, 1907
I have been tempted to make good on Asteri’s suggestion. I need to talk to him, though I hesitate to do so.
Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
I do not care for his attitude about this and it should be known to him, however much of a coward I tend to be.
My own cowardice aside, coping has been better. I no longer fear being stared at so much – at least, not for the reason one would think. The bandages’ absence has been felt, replaced instead by jerky movement, long sleeves in spring. Nothing I cannot put up with for a few weeks more. It isn’t yet fully warm.
While I feel Asteri’s absence acutely, I am not alone in this. I have Rad and Etko and Tasl – and they are armed with sharp looks, sharper words. They are far more willing to snap back, now more than ever. I am grateful for their united front.
I still feel badly, but not worse, which is better than I would have hoped. I have distracted myself with novels and reading, with further obsessively searching the archives. I know where my parents’ names were once etched by heart, where their achievements adorned the metal of medals and trophies and honors – now crossed out and burned away, because they were deemed traitors.
The archives tell me nothing new – it’s the same from when I was a child. Dust collects and they will be forgotten. Only their family – myself, my uncle and aunt and cousin – will speak their names aloud, will transcribe it to paper. Their legacy in Kergazin dies with me. Their legacy elsewhere? I can only hope it is better. More stable, more respected. I would not know, much as I would like to.
I have taken to pacing and wringing hands, even with a still mind. Or, at least, a temporarily stagnant mind, much like a river blocked off by a dam – it will spill over and a flood will break.
It is probably much too late for me to be writing this – barely past 2 chimes, at dawn – but I do not mind. I must satiate the urges in my head somehow, without bleeding myself dry all at once.
Today – much later, no doubt – I will muster up my courage and speak to Setra Calth. The crown prince. A dear friend – if I even want to call him that at the moment. I feel I speak to him over a widening chasm.
In the meantime, however, I will fidget, twitch. Live uneasily (uneasy?), while trying to occupy myself. I will run my hands over the raised, frayed skin of my arms – some scars far more faded than others. They are older, too. As am I.
Asteri would not be pleased to know I am still awake. Perhaps it is time for some sleep, then. My eyelids have started to feel leaden, my vision blurring and stinging. My body clearly wants it more than my brain.
And, so, I will leave it at this.
❂
Good morning. Well, I suppose the previous entry was also morning. Hello again, then.
I have just returned from highness’ chambers. Today, his easy, handsome, arrogance made him seem even more punchable – something I didn’t realize was possible.
But, it certainly is. I was proven grievously wrong.
I use the servant’s passage, the quickest route, to go to his chambers. It’s a neat trick, something I’ve come to trust in recent years. I, too, feel like I need to keep my head down and stay vigilant. It is fitting, as, in a way, I am his servant as much as his valet and other palace staff.
The door is ajar, just a sliver. There’s a long-empty bottle, with cracks racing through the glass, leaning against the doorframe. A good sign, then. I approach the door, trying to be light on my feet, and push the door open.
The creak of it is a loud, violent wail of a thing. I wince and grit my teeth.
The sound is so loud that everything else goes silent. The braschti game paused upon my entrance – because, of course, it did. Never knew I could give someone like the crown prince such pause.
I pause as well, for he is not alone. Across from him sits the vaguely familiar Elez Booths – known almost unanimously as Booths by his friends, something I hardly consider myself – who holds a piece in his hand, the marble owl, shot through with gold, its beak poking out from between his fingers.
Poor man doesn’t seem like much of a strategizer. He’s down to his vulture and albatross and a sole pair of sparrows. In other words, he’s losing – and does not seem to be taking it well, at least from what I can see. Also, judging by the deep furrow in his brow and the twitch of a muscle in his jaw.
Rather glumly, I recognize the other face. Alexei Hawksley, back once again to haunt my waking days. He’s observing the game with a striking intensity, his eyes faintly bloodshot.
With three sets of eyes on me, it is no wonder I stop, stock still, where I stand. I manage a demure, tiny, nervous smile – something only half-false – but don’t say anything.
Setra beats me to it, with the arch of a neatly groomed black brow, “To what do I owe the pleasure, Fernsby?”
I almost blank for a moment, swallowing thickly, “I wished to speak, highness – in private.”
“To speak?” Alexei interjects, with a laugh, that, to me, rings hollow, “I can hardly say I believe her in that, Set.”
This time both eyebrows raise, meeting the slicked, parted, strategically messy curls of his hair, “Speak about what, dear?”
I try not to groan. He’s being an ass – again. “About Damaskhein.”
That earns a tittering huff of laughter from Alexei and Elezi. Setra takes advantage of the distraction, swooping in to take the young man’s albatross. I can hear Elez swear lowly and Setra chuckling dryly as he says, “Checked, Booths. You’ve lost. What’s the count now?”
“Six to two,” Elez says, more cheerfully than one would expect from someone getting his ass handed to him in braschti – the game of the birds. “But, I did have you struggling.” Finally, he drops the owl from his grip, where it rolls onto the table, landing amongst a flurry of gray pieces – two eagles, a turtle dove and sparrow.
Setra’s side, however, is a dogpile of smooth, pale marble – two sparrows, both turtle doves, all three eagles, one owl and, the most important piece, the albatross he holds in his hand.
He flips it back and forth between his fingers, the action rhythmic and a little distracting. Without looking away from Elez, he says, “Speak, then, darling. Surely whatever you can say can be said in front of all of us.”
I fight back a grimace, fight not to fidget with my hands, the hem of my waistcoat, the edge of my sleeves, “Perhaps it can, highness. But I would not like it to.”
“Did I ask what you preferred?” He says, as he reaches for a bottle of wine, the sunlight catching it, casting a greenish hued light on the floor. From what I can tell, it’s already quite empty. He takes a long swig, his throat working, his expression one of immense pleasure.
Of course the man is pleased with himself. He’s likely been winning game after game of braschti all morning and, now, he’s starting to get drunk. Or, more drunk than before.
He swallows, takes a breath, shares a glance, sharp and wicked, with his two school chums, and looks at me. His voice is low, smooth – easy from wine, easy from pride – as he says, with finality, “Speak.”
“I–,” I pause, almost stuttering, “You upset me the other night. With what you let people say about me. With how you let them slander me. As a friend – as one of my closest – how could you let that happen?”
“I don’t hold a leash on every journalist in this damned city, Till. Whatever happens, happens. And, in this case, it’s long since happened.”
“You did nothing to stop it, highness.”
“Why should I? Maybe you deserved to be put back in your place.”
I flinch back, as though struck. My voice cracks, jumping an octave, “W-what?”
His smile widens, grows lazy and smug, as he tilts his head back, “You heard me. Maybe you did it to yourself. Maybe you earned it. It’s not for me to say, of course – though, the public certainly has ideas.”
My ears start to ring, my face grows hot. All at once, I am uncomfortable and tense and miserable. But I will not cry. I will not.
I dimly register the sound of a slap as Alexei claps him on the back, while making a sound that resembles a howl. Fitting for a man who seems like such a dog; there’s a distinct tension in his shoulders, compared to his normally too-loose gait – sober again. Elez, though, seems to be more cautious. He’s frowning.
He says, to Setra, slowly, almost cautiously – like approaching a wounded, snarling animal, “Perhaps you should reel it back, Set. Not to disagree, but it seems a little much for ten chimes.” He reaches for the bottle his crown prince left on the edge of the table.
Setra’s lip curls, his expression darkening a fraction, “Perhaps it is, Booths. But, I don’t think I asked the bastard whelp to speak up. Your advice is noted, though.” He’s sneering, but he doesn’t fight the other man as he moves the bottle, taking away the wine.
While my head is somewhere else, I don’t miss how Elez grimaces, how quickly his expression curdles. But he says nothing. Perhaps there is some kindness amongst these hardened boys. However small, it is there. However cruel their crown prince was raised and molded to be, by the hands of a malicious sculptor. Maybe there is hope for a boy like Elez, who tries to show the bare minimum – and gets shown the door.
Setra fixes me with his hard stare, with those dark eyes, dark as coal and smog. They are lovely things that can turn fatal in an instant. As I have so learned. He grits out, “You reap what you sow, my dear. I said what I said and I do not regret it. Now, leave me.”
Not for the first time and not for the last, I remark on just how beautiful these three are – brown skin, sharp cheekbones, strong jaws and crooked grins to adorn themselves with, like crowns. Setra, of course, stands tallest, his skin the darkest, his hair the silkiest and longest – his grace so easy it practically melts off of him. It puts others at ease, on the occasion he happens to be kind. His smiles, though, when they are not for show and the public, are all teeth.
That is how he looks at me now – every pointed canine on full display. When I don’t move, the brief triumph on his face sours. His lip curls up again, and he spits out, tone practically a snarl, “I said you need to leave.”
And, still, I don’t move. For the first time, I notice the crate of bottles at his feet. Still sealed. Clearly, he hasn’t quite reached the point where the wine turns him cheerful – the very same the press adores to talk about. A pity for me.
No one dares mention that he starts belligerent, the usual paranoia – the reasonable paranoia – one associates with royalty heightened. Significantly. Gods, it happens quickly, like a fire eating at oxygen.
His expression closes off, anger rolling across his face like the tumbling storm clouds that signal a hurricane forming. His voice is low, a hiss between his teeth, “If I need to ask you again,” he starts to rise from his chair, “you won’t like the repercussions.”
Despite the red in his eyes, despite how hungover he seems, with his twitchy, uneven, saunter, he is quick when he grasps at a bottle. One of the unopened ones, which he holds in a grip both lazy and straining – his knuckles a little tense. A vein in his neck throbs.
I stumble back in response to his approach, the movement frenetic, frantic, coltish. He’s shaken me more than I thought, considering the jerky way I move. He brandishes the bottle like he would a sword, all flourish and pomp, that languid, natural swagger.
My foot catches on something as I find my way back to the threshold, as his encroaching stills for a moment. Looking down and seeing what looks to be a long-discarded petticoat does not phase me much. I know what he is like; I fear I’ve always known and I’ve simply worn blinders.
He looks at me one last time, a look full of menace and loathing, and I run.
❂
I am much too much a coward to have done anything other than flee the scene. Confrontations are hardly my strong suit.
Perhaps bitterly, I think back to when I was a doe-eyed thing, full of mischief and covered in scrapes, being as curious as the day is long. I remember what he was like too — charming, certainly, but sincere, earnest. In a way that, now, I never would've expected.
He was a gentle soul, who took after his artist father, with his steady hands and easy, kind smile. This is how he used to be; bright, lovely Setra, with the hawk constellation for his namesake.
He was everything you wanted to be, except he generated no malice. Fleeting as snow — foolishly, I thought the tender-hearted, eager boy would last. He melted away far too soon.
It was Setra, of course, who approached me at my first time at court, when I hid behind my uncle’s leg, clutching at his trousers. I was barely up to his knee, then. But, Setra and I stood at the same height, and, for a prince, he didn't seem shallow or vain. I hadn't even known who he was; simply, his soft smile, those kind, dark eyes and the slight mischief of him made him feel real.
“Are you new?” He asked, in common — for my benefit, solely. It's hard to remember that he used to do things without it costing anyone. Solely because he wanted to, not because he would get anything out of it.
I was a stammering, tongue-tied mess. I didn't know why I was here or where my parents had gone or why I was sleeping in a new bed, living in a strange new house. I was petrified. Somehow, I got out a squeaky, “Y-yes.”
And, for the first time, I seen his genuine smile, all teeth – but not in the unpleasant vicious way he takes to it in adulthood. Rather, it’s something endearing, that he is so expressive, so bursting with joy, that it animates his whole face.
That is how I want to remember him – the brightest person in a given room, kind not because of some ulterior motive, but because he could be. That boy is long gone, laid to rest by trembling hands, but the ghost of him remains, in his laughter, however false it rings, in his easy stride, in his drunken endeavors.
That boy I knew isn’t dead. Merely evolved; a shadow of him flickers about and haunts me. Not that evolution did him much good, if any. I much favor those slim glances into him as he was than what I see now – tight-lipped smiles, sneers that resemble snarls.
Somewhere along the line, we both grew up – and he became what the crown on his shoulders would demand of him. I cannot say I changed the same way.
Perhaps it is better this way, this bleak, cavernous separation. After all, I shouldn’t have believed he would’ve kept me around – he’s outgrown his childhood, after all.