The same brother who teased him mercilessly, but was the first to stand up to anyone else who dared look sideways at the young prince. And when he found that he, too, could do strange and wonderful things, she taught him to hide his secret from everyone - even his brother. She told them stories she showed them sorcery. He was a second son, who worshipped his older brother as all younger sons do - even if it was in secret most of the time. My story, if someone were to tell it, would begin with her voice. Nightmares drenched in dark, dripping crimson have been my constant companion ever since. But her gentle life ended in a tapestry of blood, at the hands of my father. Her stories always ended well, sending us off into dreams, warm in the comfort of happily ever after.

She painted pictures for me and Victor, holding us in the protective wings of her arms, curled up together on her massive bed. She started all of her stories with “Once, a long time ago …” Her Blevonese accent made her words different, almost magical. Her voice flowing over us along with the blanket of darkness as night fell. The remnants of her gardenia perfume in my nose, with Victor on her other side. Her arm draped around my shoulder at night, a comfortable weight. The memory of my mother is both happiness and terror intertwining into a tangle of comfort and horror. And that is when the smell of gardenia mixed with the coppery tang of blood comes to haunt me. Until night falls and I lie in my bed, with the weight of a kingdom bearing down on me, trying to breathe under the pressure of all that I hope to do, all that I want to accomplish - all that I fear. The only thing that counts is that I carry on and do what I must. It doesn’t put Antion back together, or stop us from getting dragged into another unwanted war. It doesn’t build homes for the orphans and women left broken by my father’s reign of terror. But that fear doesn’t matter to anyone besides myself.

There are times when I fear that I’ll lose me, my true self, in the haze of the facade. Hiding in plain sight, always acting, always playing a part.

I’ve spent a lifetime practicing, becoming who I must be to survive. To the daughters of the royal court, I am courteous but, of necessity, aloof. To the generals who lead my armies, I am firm and absolute. My mother, on the other hand, taught my brother and me something entirely different: A king - a good king - must be who his people need him to be.įor the grieving woman, I am compassionate, I am kind. He used cruelty and terror as tools to ensure his power. My father taught me that the only way to ensure your subjects’ loyalty is to make them fear you. Thank you will never be enough for everything you’ve done for me.Īnd for everyone who has lost someone they love - look to the sky and remember. For my parents, who taught me to dream and then told me to never give up.

Endure sara b larson