Golden Fate: A Fractured Nation

The meeting

My father, a great warrior in his prime, had been cruel on more than one occasion. His reaction to my mother's death was not a surprise to anybody who actually knew him. She was the one thing he cared for, the one thing that kept him in check, and now she was gone. His one tether to his humanity was severed by his own greed. Gods help us all.

The only surprise was forbidding us from speaking of her. It was as if speaking her name would give her life and allow her to walk to halls again. Perhaps he felt shame for bringing mistresses into her bed and maybe even held a little fear for what she would have done if she knew.

My father had conquered seas, leveled mountains, destroyed an entire empire, and yet he obeyed my mother. He treated her with the largest bit of kindness that his rotted heart would allow. Mother brought out such warmth from our father, a warmth he shared only with her.

I never believed he loved her aside from one night that I had caught them together. Mother often struggled with sleeping and would stay up to read or tend to our home. I went looking for her that night, most likely to beg for another story or song before bed. Instead, I found my father.

He smiled softly at me, the only time in my entire life he had shown me kindness, and waved me off to bed. Curiosity clawed at my mind and urged me to follow him instead of listening. I followed behind him, sure to keep my distance, but remained close enough to not lose track of him.

He found mother in the library, a book in her hand as always. His slender fingertips pulled the book from her hands and pulled her up from the large chair. Her arms instantly snaked around the back of his neck, pulling her face towards the middle of his chest. They stood there, embracing one another, softly swaying back and forth.

I stared at them, fingertips curled around the edge of the door, my eyes peeking around the corner. They seemed at peace, like flowers swaying in the breeze on a warm day. Father wore no armor, only a simple shirt and trousers. Mother was dressed in simple robes, her hair free of pins and hanging freely down her back. They looked truly mortal and vulnerable. As if they weren't the ultimate monarchy, capable of leveling an entire empire forged by the Gods themselves.

After my mother's death I never saw that warmth again nor did I ever find him without armor. He tried so hard to act like her death meant nothing to him, as if she were merely some woman who warmed his bed, but she was everything.

We all saw how it tore him apart, the sullen nights he spent in her chair, her favorite wine at every party, and of course the hyacinth and wisteria blooms around the entirety of the estate. He would never recover from her and had never stopped grieving her.

He no longer relented on my brother's training, forcing them to their breaking points every single day. Mother would make him stop, force him to see the damage to their bodies. Without her, he pushed until he either grew bored or my brothers were unable to move.

I often would find Caspian tending to his wounds in a dark corner like a beaten dog. He would curl against the wall, shielding his pain, fearful his master might not deem him bruised enough. His body flinched at my approach, recoiling from a shadow he believed to be our father.

I spent hours tending to his wounds. Carefully suturing every cut and scrape, minimizing the scarring and long lasting effects of his battles. His skin held many scars but most healed well and could be forgotten about. Ambrose never let me see his wounds nor tend to them.

Ambrose wore his scars with pride. Even when father nearly took out his eye he refused to wear a covering. He claimed he had deserved it and wouldn't disappoint him next time. Father saw Ambrose as arrogant and prideful, constantly looking down on him. My brother's will never wavered under his eye, no matter how much he despised him. Ambrose was determined to be on top. I pitied him for it.