2nd of Spring, 514 AV
4:00
The skies were trapped behind the trees. The overwhelming light of the sun leaked through the flimsy and ephemeral materials of the earth, the radiance shining down onto two boys: Caesarion, and Rhaenon. They were brothers, and they were living like brothers. They were stepping through the ocean of grass and finding their own path, making their own lives. Rhaenon had gone north where there were lions and wolves, searching for an adventure to claim his own. Caesarion, the younger of the two, went with him. He would always make that same choice, no matter which direction his brother went. That was the only thing he knew.
To be honest, perhaps what Caesarion wanted to hide the most was his love for Rhaenon. He always wanted his respect, his acknowledgment, his admiration. Because of that, he would go with him, anywhere. He'd follow closely behind as he fought off Gods and Kings, and he would always try to be there. That was the nature of their relationship, too. It was the talented and heroic older brother, with the younger who followed his lead and lived to embrace his shadow. That was fine, anyway. He was content like that, and for a long time. Even now, he would've been content to have been nothing at all but a guardian. Oh, he missed home. He had been missing it for a long time, and ignorant of that fact. He hated slavery, and he wanted to be his own person, but he lost what he was before. He missed his brother, his mother, even his father.
He missed belonging somewhere. The love he found for Syliras was that of a stranger to a shelter, it was a home that accepted him blindly, but without any regard for the depths of his person. He would never be one with this place, like he was in Ravok. It was crazy, and violent, and sometimes he loathed it . . . but he'd never found a moment where he couldn't feel it within him. He could feel the clashing of blades and hearts, the sound of shackles dragging against the floor, and this was all the time. He could never be rid of it.
He could feel his mother embracing him, like she did so many times. "Rest now, Caesarion," she'd say. "You don't need to worry about a thing." Even so though, he did worry. He worried for everything, because he had become aware of so many things. He couldn't help but notice the pain of the slaves, and the degradation of his brother's kind spirit. He remembered when he was far younger than he was now, Rhaenon would always come to him at night and just . . . talk. He'd want to talk about anything, from the birds in the nest to the great monsters of the sea. He was so entranced by the mysteries of the world, loving them rather than fearing them. Night would become nothing but a fantasy world for the two brothers, and time would fade away as they talked of everything. They talked about everything they ever wanted to be, what sort of girls Rhaenon would come to love and what . . . boys Caesarion would. That was always a topic of contention, but even so Rhaenon still loved him. He remembered that, and smiled at that thought. It meant that he mattered. When a kid is growing up and trying to find their path, the most important thing was reminding them of how important they were.
In some unconventional way, he was always made to remember of how his family loved him. He could see a scene in the back of his mind, of his birthday way back when. He was turning seven, which was nothing special to your average person, but it was made a lucky number by his family. His brother had gotten a big, fat cat when he hit that age, and somehow he'd loved that gift. From what Caesar was told, Rhaenon was the one to pick out his present on this day, and so he was a mix of excited and a little afraid. Knowing his brother, he'd probably just hand him a bag full of slave poop and tell him to deal with it. But some days were different -- he was often sweet, too, or at least capable of it.
When the gift was revealed, his face was ignited into delight. There was a puppy riding into the room, with a strange clay figure at the helm. The ceramic moved and could even speak, and it was quite the acrobatic. He remembered it dashing and leaping all throughout the lobby, with he and his brother trying to catch it and discover just what it was. A pycon, he would've known now. His mother laughed and cheered as the chase went on, and the little furry-eared canine joined in the fun and helped the clay man make his get-away. It was a beautiful experience, and one he would remember forever. One that he'd look back to when his brother was being cruel, and his mother unkind. One that he looked back to when he heard that his father had died. He didn't tell anyone, but when he remembered that scene, he could see the look on his father's face, clearly. He was sitting behind his wife, and he had a tear in his eyes. He never explained why that was, his sons never asked. He was happy, maybe, or sad to know that his own youth had passed. That thought made the boy-turned-man tear up some, too. He knew that his father had a soul, and that it ached. Somehow he'd forgotten that, turning on his family and forgetting that they were human too.
Everyone in this whole world was suffering. He forgot that. It'd be his lifelong regret.
4:00
The skies were trapped behind the trees. The overwhelming light of the sun leaked through the flimsy and ephemeral materials of the earth, the radiance shining down onto two boys: Caesarion, and Rhaenon. They were brothers, and they were living like brothers. They were stepping through the ocean of grass and finding their own path, making their own lives. Rhaenon had gone north where there were lions and wolves, searching for an adventure to claim his own. Caesarion, the younger of the two, went with him. He would always make that same choice, no matter which direction his brother went. That was the only thing he knew.
To be honest, perhaps what Caesarion wanted to hide the most was his love for Rhaenon. He always wanted his respect, his acknowledgment, his admiration. Because of that, he would go with him, anywhere. He'd follow closely behind as he fought off Gods and Kings, and he would always try to be there. That was the nature of their relationship, too. It was the talented and heroic older brother, with the younger who followed his lead and lived to embrace his shadow. That was fine, anyway. He was content like that, and for a long time. Even now, he would've been content to have been nothing at all but a guardian. Oh, he missed home. He had been missing it for a long time, and ignorant of that fact. He hated slavery, and he wanted to be his own person, but he lost what he was before. He missed his brother, his mother, even his father.
He missed belonging somewhere. The love he found for Syliras was that of a stranger to a shelter, it was a home that accepted him blindly, but without any regard for the depths of his person. He would never be one with this place, like he was in Ravok. It was crazy, and violent, and sometimes he loathed it . . . but he'd never found a moment where he couldn't feel it within him. He could feel the clashing of blades and hearts, the sound of shackles dragging against the floor, and this was all the time. He could never be rid of it.
He could feel his mother embracing him, like she did so many times. "Rest now, Caesarion," she'd say. "You don't need to worry about a thing." Even so though, he did worry. He worried for everything, because he had become aware of so many things. He couldn't help but notice the pain of the slaves, and the degradation of his brother's kind spirit. He remembered when he was far younger than he was now, Rhaenon would always come to him at night and just . . . talk. He'd want to talk about anything, from the birds in the nest to the great monsters of the sea. He was so entranced by the mysteries of the world, loving them rather than fearing them. Night would become nothing but a fantasy world for the two brothers, and time would fade away as they talked of everything. They talked about everything they ever wanted to be, what sort of girls Rhaenon would come to love and what . . . boys Caesarion would. That was always a topic of contention, but even so Rhaenon still loved him. He remembered that, and smiled at that thought. It meant that he mattered. When a kid is growing up and trying to find their path, the most important thing was reminding them of how important they were.
In some unconventional way, he was always made to remember of how his family loved him. He could see a scene in the back of his mind, of his birthday way back when. He was turning seven, which was nothing special to your average person, but it was made a lucky number by his family. His brother had gotten a big, fat cat when he hit that age, and somehow he'd loved that gift. From what Caesar was told, Rhaenon was the one to pick out his present on this day, and so he was a mix of excited and a little afraid. Knowing his brother, he'd probably just hand him a bag full of slave poop and tell him to deal with it. But some days were different -- he was often sweet, too, or at least capable of it.
When the gift was revealed, his face was ignited into delight. There was a puppy riding into the room, with a strange clay figure at the helm. The ceramic moved and could even speak, and it was quite the acrobatic. He remembered it dashing and leaping all throughout the lobby, with he and his brother trying to catch it and discover just what it was. A pycon, he would've known now. His mother laughed and cheered as the chase went on, and the little furry-eared canine joined in the fun and helped the clay man make his get-away. It was a beautiful experience, and one he would remember forever. One that he'd look back to when his brother was being cruel, and his mother unkind. One that he looked back to when he heard that his father had died. He didn't tell anyone, but when he remembered that scene, he could see the look on his father's face, clearly. He was sitting behind his wife, and he had a tear in his eyes. He never explained why that was, his sons never asked. He was happy, maybe, or sad to know that his own youth had passed. That thought made the boy-turned-man tear up some, too. He knew that his father had a soul, and that it ached. Somehow he'd forgotten that, turning on his family and forgetting that they were human too.
Everyone in this whole world was suffering. He forgot that. It'd be his lifelong regret.
