There are a lot of things that are fun to dream about doing without ever having the slightest desire to actually accomplish them. After all, every child loves hearing the tales spun of the heroes of old who vanquished evil kings and demons with their bravery and strength, but once you’ve become a young man, the fancies and longing to go and do those historic deeds become unrealistic. In the real world, no one can be sure if he’s going to survive the epic charge into the fray of battle or win the heart of the fair lady he so desires. You realize that even though the troubadours recite countless tales of might and magic, no one ever remembers the real people— the failures who were just as brave but not quite as lucky.
By all standards, I was one of the lucky ones. I was born into the most prominent royal family on the continent, the eldest son of the very classically brave King Bervian Anldar Everic of Pavathia who had united his nation with the country of Hyrodoc by his marriage to the storybook-beautiful princess Severah Aerina Rainoch. I suppose my parents were the closest thing to a fairy tale there still was left in the world.
But the stories never tell you what to do when you’re the product of a fairy tale ending. When there’s no way you could ever measure up to the great things your parents did, even if it was just to get married. The story always ends. And, naturally, it always ends well. No one wants to hear what happens afterward. No one wants to hear about the four children that died at birth or that one of the three surviving children died in an accident, leaving his twin devastated. No one cares that the beautiful princess never quite regained her cheerful spirit after the deaths of her children or that the brave warrior king was injured and could no longer compete in his favorite sport. That’s the end of a tragedy, not a fairy tale.
So no one cares.
Instead, they refocus their attention on me.
The only surviving son.
I used to wonder why it had to be me, why I had to be the one that lived. The Hyrodish people had never been particularly fond of me. Though they respected my father, they never truly loved him the way they loved my mother, who was one of their own. Many of the common folk still held prejudice in their hearts against their black haired, green eyed Pavathian brethren. My father was “foreign,” as were my younger sister Thei and I. We were always “them” to the Hyrodish. My younger brother Flein, Thei’s fraternal twin, had taken after my mother’s blond, blue-eyed Hyrodish side, and had been much loved until his accidental death.
I don’t bother wondering why he had to die anymore. Discovering a reason wouldn’t bring him back. Whether it was fate or chance, Flein had died and I had lived. There was nothing to do but deal with it. I didn’t care if the people didn’t love me. They were stuck with me until I died. Then they would be stuck with my legacy.
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