A Terrible fate

Part 11

Our eyes were our father's favorite part of us, perhaps it is odd but they were one of the few things that we took after him in. They were inquisitive and ever curious and as beautiful as our fathers, something which our mother and uncle told us endlessly. He was proud to have passed down something so unique and well-known in our lineage, our golden eyes have been a constant for many generations of the family. It was something that people knew to recognize us for, as the golden eyes were a sign of who we were, and whose children we were.

Most of our features came from the woman who had us. She wasn't our mother, she had never been one to us. My father despises her, saying that the only good that came from her was my brother and me.

I don't know what exactly happened to have him hate her so, but I overheard my Uncles whispering about it once. How it was such a shame that I looked so like the woman who nearly killed us.

I don't know if they spoke about the kingdom, or our glory, or if they meant that she nearly killed our family somehow. But I assume that whatever they were talking about is the reason why she was executed shortly after our first birthday.

Perhaps it has something to do with the deep scars that have painted my brother's and my backs and arms and necks since we could remember.

But I never asked. Grandfather always said I was a good girl for that, being obedient and silent and never asking. He always praised it, conversely to how my uncles, mother, and father pleaded with me to act out. They wished for me to behave like my cousins and brother, wild and loud and active. Running to and fro and causing trouble wherever they went and having the most fun doing it.

I joined them sometimes, Grandfather would scold me for it and everyone else would reward me with sweets and praise. But really I preferred spending time curled up next to my parents, in the library, at meetings, on the throne when Grandfather was too unwell to sit in on councils, and just reading a book or napping by their sides.

I wish I had joined them more.

I miss the squeals and screams of laughter they would let out as they raced down the halls, pulling me with them as we ran from whatever trouble we had caused.

I miss the quiet times by the crackling fires as I read my books next to my father and mother. Where they would pet my hair and fawn over how fast I had gotten through the fables and histories and thick volumes of mythologies.

I miss them.

I wish I could sleep but I truly don't want to. If I sleep I'll see them again, and I'll be happy. We'll be together as we once were, running and playing in the sunshine by the creeks in the gardens. Our parents watched us from afar on a blanket under the shade of the blossoming willow trees, food and tea spread out before them. It'll be as it should be, as it once was.

And then I'll wake up.

And it'll all be this horrible reality again.

Either that or I'll see the throne room again, in a clear clarity I didn't when it had actually happened. The blood oozed out into puddles underneath them. The stillness in my brother's eyes, the horror in my little cousins as their fathers' bodies covered theirs in either a desperate attempt to prevent what had happened or in grief as they too were killed.

The stillness of my father's body as the warmth seeps away from it, the sight of my grandfather impaled to his throne.

The headless body of my brother, striking the sword hard and anger into him, his head sitting next to me as I wail over it all.