Ailm

Chapter Two

A few days later we returned to the library, Bedivere having finished however many books he had gotten and wanted to get more. It was like the books were food and he was a starving man. We browsed the many shelves and Bedivere soon found a book with an intriguing title, which he pulled from the shelf to look through.

I heard shuffling footsteps walking in our direction. I turned to look in their direction and found Drake, Arthur and I's father's butler. He was an old, slightly hunched man, but his eyes and words were as quick and sharp as they had probably ever been.

"Milords," he said, bowing stiffly. Probably back pain, I thought absently.

"Good morning, Drake," Arthur responded politely. "I hope you are doing well to-day."

Drake smiled, but to me, it seemed more of a grimace. "Thank you, and to you as well, young sir."

"What do you need?" I asked, interrupting the pleasantries.

He looked me over with a critical eye before saying, "Your father has requested to see you, young sir."

Pursing my lips, I went to respond, but Arthur beat me to it. "Why can't Father come see us?"

"Now, now, young sir. It hardly suits you to seem spoiled."

"That's not what Arthur meant by that, and we both know it," I said in a stern voice, drawing myself up to my full height and moving slightly closer to Arthur.

Bowing again, he said, "Of course, young sir."

I hated it when he said that-I was nearly a man, and if I so wished, I could throw him across the room. And right now, that seemed like a wonderful idea, too. But using all my self-control, I instead responded coldly, "Where is Father, Butler Drake?"

"In his chambers, young sir," he said, seemingly unaffected by my tone and actions. It was as if he was oil and I water, my efforts futile to affect him in any way.

I turned to Bedivere. "Are you coming?"

"Just a moment...," he trailed off. About a minute later, he looked up. "Going where?"

"Young sir, really, you should pay more attention, especially when your elders are speaking," Drake said in place of an actual answer.

"Oh yes, sorry, Butler Drake," Bedivere replied. He had an odd way of getting revenge-he didn't speak with sarcasm at all, but when the time arrived, he used cold logic. That was one thing I admired about him.

"Father wants to see us," Arthur told Bedivere. At his confused look, Arthur clarified, "He's in his chambers."

"At least, that's what Butler Drake says," I put in, glaring at Drake.

He showed no sign of acknowledgement, but simply bowed, and opened his mouth to say something. Not wanting to hear another word from his slimy mouth, I grabbed both Arthur and Bedivere by the arm and dragged them into the hall. I let go then led the way to Father's chambers.

Once there, I pushed open one of the doors, blinking as my eyes adjusted to the dimmer lighting. The curtains were all drawn and the only light came from the blazing fire that roared in the fireplace. Father was hunched over something on his desk, writing quickly, yet with great importance.

As I approached, I said, "Father?"

He turned to look at me, then quickly moved around the papers on his desk. He started to speak but then hacked horribly into his arm.

He held out his arm in a motion that signified to stop. Arthur did and waited until Father had stopped sounding like Death.

"I'm sorry that you have to see me like this, my son," he said to Arthur. He looked past him at Bedivere and I. "The two of you as well." His voice was gravelly with sickness.

"It does me no harm, sir. But please, what sickness has befallen you?" Bedivere asked politely.

"I'm not entirely sure. As you know, I have been getting ill, but I haven't been sick like this in years."

Bedivere pondered this quietly, eyes gazing focusedly at the floor. He started twirling a lock of his brown hair absently.

"So why did you call us?" I asked, remembering the reason for our being here.

"I wanted you to know my state of well being, just in case," he said, then started coughing again. Arthur tried to go closer again-and I admit I wanted to do the same-but Father said between chest-rattling coughs, "Stop... please... don't want... you sick as well..."

This prompted me to action. "Father is right. We should probably leave as well."

Arthur looked at Father longingly but conceded. Bedivere, however, I had to steer from the room, all of his concentration on something deep in his labyrinth of a mind. He got like this whenever he was deep in thought as if the rest of the world would wait until he had figured things out.

I convinced a passing maid to bring some food to my chambers, which is where the three of us retired. The three of us were oddly silent, our visit to Father weighing heavily in our minds. I thought back to his words: Just in case. Just in case of what? What did he think was going to happen to him?

"When was the last time your father was sick like this?" Bedivere asked, interrupting my thoughts.

"It wasn't recently, I'm sure," Arthur said, his brow drawing together. "It was around when Mom died, no?"

I hummed conformation. "Father was bedridden, almost to the point of death. When it seemed we would lay him to rest, Mother died-maybe of grief-but then Father started to grow stronger."

Bedivere's eyebrows rose, before coming down in thoughtfulness. I could almost see the gears in his head turning. I wondered what it would be like to be able to employ all of your concentration on one thing.

There was nothing more to say, so we ate in silence. Quiet contemplation spread like a heavy blanket over us, and it seemed to not only affect us-the rest of the household was strangely hushed. Father did show at dinner, but he was pale and his eyes were somewhat glazed over.

That night, I laid in bed, unable to sleep. The memory of my mother was oppressing, and my chest ached. I missed her warm hugs and soft smiles, her smirk and her finger put to her lips. My image of her was limited, as her death happened so long ago. And Father never talked of her, probably because of grief. And maybe guilt-he most likely blamed himself for her death, as she had been devoted to helping him get well. And he did, but she died.

Why? Why did she die? I thought it was either grief, or maybe she contracted the illness. I realized that I didn't know the exact cause. One morning I just woke up, and she was gone. No one ever talked of it: it was all so sudden, and then Father was getting well.

But now he was sick again. And, unless I was remembering wrong, it seemed like the same illness he had had when Mother died. I shuddered and eventually fell into a restless sleep.