Something With a Prince

Chapter Nine: The Eternal and Mental Chafe

Tallethea

We traveled on in silence. The only noises that could be heard were the forest creatures and the occasional clearing of a throat from Monson. Eventually, I tired of my irritation toward Lansing after he dunked me into that stream. I felt he was genuine in striking our truce, despite what occurred afterward. We could tolerate each other for Arlyn's sake... at least for now anyway. I have done it for twenty years; I imagine that a week or two should be a blink of an eye in comparison. Then again, those twenty years were not spent in his constant company so I could be wrong.

When I was young, before my father's death and far before the King fell ill, I remember the two of us being stuck in the same room alone for a mere fifteen minutes. It was a rare occurrence that they ever came to the village, but it did happen from time to time when important Kings came to call or a threat to the family arose. This instant was because Arlyn fell very ill and needed constant attention. To think back on it now, the most practical thing to do would have been to call a doctor or apothecary, but the Queen trusted absolutely no one. She had seen to it herself that Mama alone was the one tending to Arlyn. This left Lansing and me unoccupied and without the mediation of Arlyn.

Lansing kept pacing, wearing out the kitchen rug, and asking difficult questions little kids love to ask. Of course, being only a kid myself I had no answers for him. Will Arlyn be okay? What happens to people when they don't get better? Why do people get sick? What does the word influenza mean? Does Mama know how to fix it? What does death look like?

I remember standing up from my seat by the door, exasperated by his constant stream of questions, but nothing was more irritating than when he called my mother "Mama." He had a mother of his own, and there was no way I would be sharing mine with him.

"You're meant to call her Rosemary." I snapped at him. "She's my mama, not yours."

His eyes went soft then jagged around the edges as he stared at me...almost looking through me.

If I were in the mood to focus on such a reflection, I could almost see the exact expression on his face in my mind's eye. That's when he proceeded to ask more questions about more things I didn't have the energy to answer. Thankfully, my mother came out of Arlyn's room at the precise time I was heeding the impulse to knock him down.

"Full of questions, I see." Mama smiled at Lansing in a way that always made my stomach curdle. "I can remedy that."

Everyone looked at him that way; with soft, gooey eyes and sweet smiles. Mama smiled at me that way sometimes when I did things like asking to come in the house when covered in mud, or when I did chores without being asked, but Lansing didn't even have to work to get one. I didn't see it, I still can't see it, whatever it is that makes him so admirable.

Mama would murmur something about him being an angel or something grossly exaggerated like that and curl up with him by the bookcase. She would read to him until the day ended. Then, when the light vanished, she would light a fire, welcome Father home, make dinner, and narrate to both Lansing and my father as they sat with full bellies by the hearth. I think I would rather spend my time chipping cinder off of a brick than sit down and peruse a book for the fun of it. Of course, I am well read, but only in the service of knowing how to read and write. What I learned is, as Mama deemed, the bare minimum a person ought to learn. I figure, if it doesn't help me survive, why bother at all?

I was bored out of my mind those couple of days. Eventually, when Arlyn's fever broke, I would sneak into his room and sit next to him on the bed. He would sleep mostly, but when he was awake, he would hold my hand and tell me about the unusual things he saw as he slept.

I have never had a dream, but I imagine it would be quite nice. I am told it's pleasant to have them, but for some unknown reason my mind hasn't felt the need to test it out for itself. I would even take a nightmare if it were all I could ever experience.

Arlyn's dreams, when he was young, were about being swept up by the wind and traveling to far off places. He fought dragons and scaled high towers only to slip and wake up as he fell. Sometimes I was in his dreams, and I always liked those best. The two of us, as he had put it, were unstoppable knights, vanquishing evil and rewarding ourselves with mountains of cakes and fine jewels. Now when he tells me of what he dreams he describes dark castles, or piles of papers covering him as shadows swallow up the village. There are a rare few of him and I these days, but I suppose that is because he is slaying his own kind of dragon now.

At once I am snatched from my walk down memory lane by the feeling of my stomach tightening, as if an invisible hand were gripping my insides. The sound of a branch cracking somewhere in the trees solidifies my full attention.

Yanking on the reins, my horse tossed its head and fumbled backward into a stop. I threw out my arm to the side. Both Monson and Lansing froze, the three of us listening intently. Each thump of my heart thrust into my ribcage, like a stowaway, beating against the hull of the ship after they have changed their mind. The woods were without noise, smells, even breath. We waited.