Notes:
Sorry I took so long to write this! I’ve got a lot of other projects going on. Hopefully I’ll be able to finish the next chapter sooner than I did this one.
Esben’s POV! Sorry, I reverted to Artham at the end…It’s just so much easier for me to do his thought process for several reasons. One, he’s in the books a lot more than Esben. Two, He’s one of the characters I relate most with. ( Throne Warden, voracious reader, ect.)
😢 Oh dear. Artham, what are you doing. To yourself and to your brother.
Chapter 6 Changing
Esben woke slowly to the cold gray light filtering through his closed curtains. During the moment of waking, he had felt a sense of blissful peace, thinking that the events of the night before had been only a dream. Then, he heard sloshy steps coming up the hall, and heard Artham’s door slam. He could imagine Artham cringing at the bang he (probably) had not intended. Esben cringed too. Remembrance flooded over him, but it felt different from the night before. It still hurt and filled him with a deep sadness, but it wasn’t the burning pangs, full of shock and pain he had felt the night before. He sat up and yawned. It was strange. He almost felt like…he had accepted it somehow. Not that he was okay with it, that would never happen. But he had lost the hope that he was stuck in a nightmare, or that someone had made a mistake. Something inside him had realized that this was actually happening, and it had decided to go on anyway. In an instant, he felt guilty. He shouldn’t accept that they were gone. It felt wrong, like he was losing them even more if he dared live a normal life without them. It’s what Papa would have wanted, a voice said in his mind. But I can’t go on as if they never existed! He told himself. He shook his head. He could never, ever go on as if they never existed. That would never happen. Every object in his room, in the castle, in Anniera, was surrounded by memories. He wouldn’t be able to go on as if they never existed unless he burned down the whole island. And that of course, was impossible. And even if he did, their love still lived in his heart, and he’d never be able to uproot it. But that didn’t make it feel any better.He got up and walked to the wall across from him where one of his father’s paintings hung. He slid his fingers gently over the brushstrokes, knowing exactly how his father had laid down the colors. For a moment, he lost himself in the memory. Only a few months ago, out by the river Rysen.
“How’s that look, Papa?” Esben asked, squinting skeptically from his painting to his father’s to the river in front of them.
“It looks great. You’re improving fast.” His father said with a smile. He then turned back to his canvas and gently laid a tiny brush covered in watery paint to one of the dancing ripples of the river. With a flick and a twist of his wrist, he sent light sparkling across the water. Esben looked on in awe.
“How did you do that?” He asked in astonishment.
“Here,” his father said, “let me show you.” He pulled out the sheet they used for cleaning brushes and took hold of Esben’s paint covered hand. He demonstrated the flick that scattered droplets of paint over a small area of canvas. Esben stuck out his tongue and tried to replicate it. Instead, he sprinkled paint all over his father’s shirt.
“Um…” he said, laughing. “I’m pretty sure I didn’t do that right.” His father started laughing too, and with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, flicked a brush full of paint in his son’s direction. It scattered over Esben’s face and hair, making him look like he had gotten a sprinkling of snow. Father and son laughed again, and Jru gently took his son’s hand, and showing him again how to turn paint into sparkles of light, set it back to the work they shared.
When Esben awoke from his daydream, he found himself wiping away tears instead of wet paint. He sighed, and was surprised when the memory didn’t make him feel like his heart was breaking all over again. He missed his parents so badly it hurt, but it was like some shadow of the feelings he had shared with his father when they were together was awakened by the memory. It made it feel like his family wasn’t so far out of reach. He heard Artham’s window swing open, and knew he still had at least one part of his family. He had a sudden urge to be with Artham, to talk about what he had been too raw to talk about last night. He wanted to be with the one person who he still shared the bond of blood with. Besides, he was starting to wonder what Artham had been doing in the hall with apparently wet boots this early in the morning. And why he had slammed his door. Also why he had opened his window on this cool morning. At least it wasn’t raining any more. His curiosity reached its highest when he saw a wet hand stick out of Artham’s window and place soaked boots on the wet shingles.
For some reason, when he went to Artham’s room, he found himself walking on tiptoes. He tapped gently on the door. For a second, he heard frantic scuffling inside, then a sigh.
“Come in.” He heard Artham say. Esben opened the door and stepped inside. He looked at Artham in surprise for a moment, then asked,
“What happened?” He asked in astonishment. Artham was thoroughly soaked. His clothes were dripping and his hair was plastered to his forehead. He had dark circles under his eyes, and he looked exhausted.
“I…um…got caught out in the-er, I didn’t notice it…was raining.”
“How could you not notice it was raining? It was pouring out there.”
“I…uh…” Artham looked away from Esben, looking guilty for some reason.
“Did you sleep at all last night?” Esben asked. He knew his brother. When Artham had something on his mind, he would stay up for hours. On the other hand, Esben felt much better after he had slept over a problem.
“Yes.” Artham said. Then, under his breath, he added, “For a while at least.” As Artham started rubbing a towel around his head and hair, Esben gazed at him sadly.
“It’s hard, isn’t it.” Esben said. “Going on without them. This morning, I woke up and thought it was all a dream.” His voice was cracking, but he didn’t bother to hide it from his brother. Artham’s answer was silence.
“Why did you leave last night?” Artham grew rigid for a second, and went back to pulling fresh clothes out of his wardrobe.
“I couldn’t fall back to sleep.”
“Did you have a nightmare or something?” Artham didn’t answer.
“Artham-”
“Can we please not talk about this right now?” Artham looked at Esben pleadingly. Esben looked at him in surprise. Artham’s voice was tense, and carried an emptiness that had never been there before.
“Okay,” Esben said hesitantly. “Are you alright?”
“Yes. I’m fine.” Esben felt like Artham had closed the conversation. Esben didn’t understand it. Yesterday, it had seemed like his brother had felt like he had, and Artham had been the one trying to make sure his brother was okay, trying to get them to talk. Now, he was acting like a completely different person. It sent another wave of grief over Esben as he saw how much this was changing Artham. He seemed different now, distant. Without thinking, he resolved to go ask his Papa what he should do. But he’s not here. Esben’s throat constricted again. Quickly, he turned and left the room, closing the door behind him, not seeing the way Artham turned to look at him, and how he almost followed him out. He rushed to his room and closed the door behind him, and he sank to the floor. He stared up at the ceiling and watched the light from outside his window dance slowly across it. He bent over to fish under his bed, looking for something. His search revealed several unwanted results, only some of which included a dirty shirt, a dead field snake, plenty of dust, and to his surprise, his comb (which he had been looking for for at least a month.)Then, he pulled a thick case covered in white wood from under his bed.
It was adorned with dozens of tiny doodles and sketches. He opened the clasps and ran his fingers over the contents. Just the touch of the many pencils inside seemed to give him comfort. The last time he had touched these pencils had been with his father at his side. He wasn’t sure if it was just his imagination, but the very air in the case still smelled like him. He brushed his fingers over the pencils again, and selected a few of varying degrees of softness. He pulled a knife out of his pocket and started to sharpen them. Here was something that stayed the same. But could something really remain unchanged when connected to memories that changed the lives of those who used it? The feel of his art at his fingertips both healed and continued to hurt him. It gave him peace and sureness, but flooded him with the memories that were now tainted with grief. He intended to do something with those memories. He had taken an empty canvas from his shelf when Artham knocked on the door. When did we start knocking on each other’s doors? Esben thought.
“You don’t have to knock,” he called to Artham. When he heard a hesitant silence outside the door, he continued. “Come in,” Artham opened the door and stood awkwardly, looking like he didn’t know what to do with himself.
“Es, I’m sorry about that…um, if you want to talk, that’s okay.” A strange silence followed. “Do you? Want to talk, I mean.” Artham said.
“Yeah. It’s weird though, you’re the one that’s good with words, and neither one of us knows what to say.” Artham laughed a bit at this, but his laughter wasn’t happy. He decided to ignore the awkwardness and uncomfortable sadness that charged the air and just ask Esben something, anything, that would clear things up.
“What are you thinking about?” That sounded ridiculous, he thought to himself, but Esben didn’t take it that way. He fiddled around with the pencils in his hand for a moment, then said,
“A lot of things. Besides what’s obvious. I haven’t thought about it much, but I’m really nervous about this becoming King stuff. I mean, I think I’m going to enjoy the coronation and stuff, where all that matters is being friendly. I just…am kinda scared.”
“Why?” Artham asked.
“The responsibility. I know I’ve been preparing for it for years, but I don’t think I’m ready.” The vulnerability in Esben’s voice tugged at Artham’s heart. It made him want even more to protect this little brother of his. But he didn’t know how. It frustrated him so much, but he was new to these kinds of feelings, these painful conversations. How could he protect Esben from the sadness he saw in his eyes? When he didn’t even know how to define it? And he had nobody he could seek help from.
There’s always Bonifer, he thought. But this seemed too personal for him to confide in the old counselor.
“What can I do?” He asked, feeling lost.
“You can stay here, with me, until Bonifer tells us we have to go somewhere,” Esben answered. “I don’t want to be alone. And you can help me write that speech.” The last part, Esben said with a ghost of a smile, the first one either boy had shown since the awful news had come. Esben set aside his pencils and grabbed a sheet of paper for Artham.
“Okay,” the older brother answered, his voice returning to its tired and empty tone. “Let’s get writing.”
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