Brotherly Love - 1. Chapter 1

'When it’s gone, you'll know what a gift love was. You'll suffer like this. So go back and fight to keep it.’ ~Ian McEwan, Enduring Love, 1997.

He was the kind of teenager who, when asked privately, would reply without hesitation that his life was not worth living and he wanted to kill himself. If only that were possible. Even when depressed – so very depressed – to commit suicide would require the kind of courage he knew he did not possess. Nobody needed him. Nobody would particularly care if he were gone. It was a sad fact. He realised the world had reached a stage where ultimately, it would carry on without him, like a machine that could still run with a part missing. Or was he even that? No one told him why he was important, or why he must live on, though at heart he’d much rather there be a reason. At this time, he was lost, and he had yet to find himself a purpose to continue. But by staying (and doing nothing about his feelings), he felt he was doing his family a favour of some sort, if his presence saved them grief – a charitable act surely, with its rewards at the end. Was the key to existence to be found in our relationship with others? Why was he living for other people, when he should be living for himself? Why should he be nice to others, when they weren’t nice to him in the first place? These were questions that, at his age, proved too much for him, and he’d long given up trying to find the answers, believing with a fierce conviction that they did not exist, or even if they did, they were probably silly.

No longer did he find novelty or intrigue in daily life. He used to notice how dust, suspended in mid-air, moved along with the tiniest, invisible currents of air movement under the sunlight, as well as the soft tapping noise of a pigeon walking on grass. It turned out the world was not a beautiful place and had little to offer him. For a thirteen-year-old, he thought himself more cynical and deep, more wise and knowing than others of his own age. The others never saw the world his way, and were mostly uninterested to pursue the meaning of life. Even his older brother, Edward, who was always happy, who must have done an awful lot more thinking on the subject than he had, never seemed troubled at all by these higher mysteries. He came to the conclusion that maybe he was the special one, the unique being in this world, although not so lucky now that he was stranded in a world full of shallow people, surrounding him like an impenetrable wall, drowning him. No wonder he was depressed. But despite having told his family on multiple occasions that he suffered clinical depression, an illness which ought to demand immediate attention and fear, they didn’t really believe him.

Ronny lay relaxed in his own single bed, breathing slowly as he drifted back into consciousness and into the world he wished he did not belong. It was late morning, and the warm air that permeated the windows could be felt on his cheeks. There were small fragments of a birdsong outside. Beneath the duvet, he felt through the fabric of his pyjamas the presence of some much warmer air, trapped against his own body since last night, now humid, which made him uncomfortable. He did not want to open his eyes, not yet. He could sense, or at least he believed so, every object in the room. He knew if he opened his eyes now, he would see white ceiling and the four yellow walls of his room. Then he would have to remove the grey duvet and push it to one side, allowing his feet to breathe. He would have to track down his slippers, which could be anywhere in the room, and then gaze open-mouthed at his tidied and cleaned desk and wardrobe, secretly admiring the servants having managed all that in his sleep. He would peek outside the window and investigate that laughter in the back garden, perhaps Edward messing around with his terrible friends, and discover what was so funny. Maybe it was nothing amusing at all. For some reason, he felt he had a vague obligation to know what was going on but he couldn’t pinpoint why he wanted to know. He should mind his own business, really.

Opting not to look outside, he would glide sleepy-eyed down the long corridor of the first floor, under the surveillance of suits of armour on the sides, catch his own reflection in a gilt mirror, and would again be reminded that his pillow was an abysmal hairdresser. While he was there anyway, he might as well travel another two rooms to the left – to the bathroom, brush his teeth and go to the loo. After a twenty-minute shower, he would sort out his hair and, reaching the kitchen at last for some food, would be told by the cook that he’d missed breakfast by at least four hours. He would have to go with a growling stomach to Reldo for the reading session in the library…

Ronny went through his entire routine of the day. For a moment he thought he’d done everything that was required of him. It was a shock, therefore, when his hands moved and the bed sheet tickled his palms that he found himself inexplicably still in bed and had accomplished nothing. He really ought to get up now. Reldo would not be pleased if he failed to show up but even so, he knew the librarian would never shout at him. Reldo was simply too kind to be cruel. In many ways, Reldo was more of a father figure to Ronny. Entrusted by the King to read to his two sons every morning, Reldo watched over the two of them, day after day, as if they were his own. Whatever respect his title, a prince, compelled, Ronny didn’t feel it. In fact, he never felt like he was a prince. His name, originally, was the same as his father’s, a horrible name, but his clever brother Edward came up with ‘Ronny’ one evening which by far sounded more pleasant to the four-year-old, at least at the time, so Ronny welcomed the name change. He regretted that a little because it was clearly an invasion from Edward, meddling with his private affairs. Even if he did say something in protest then, no one would have listened. Everybody called him Ronny now to avoid confusion, so as to stop the squires, and particularly Queen Tanya, from summoning both the King and him at once.

His father, King Roald Remanis the Second, has ruled the kingdom of Misthalin for thirty years. He told Ronny on a few occasions that years ago, when he was still young and handsome – like Edward – he took down a fully grown troll in a duel with a bit of cunning and his strong affinity with swords. And like Edward, who in every way reminded the King of his younger days, he too in his prime enjoyed horse riding and archery, both to Ronny were more of an affliction than favourite pastimes. It occurred to Ronny how much his father and everyone else adored Edward, much more so (if at all) than himself. It simply felt unfair. But how could a father love a son in whom he saw nothing of himself despite giving him his name, in whom he saw no talent or if any, were inferior to his first-born, and who one day would not inherit his kingdom? The lack of affection from his father, Ronny felt, was therefore completely justified. He was insignificant, that was all.

Instead of being told how his brother was superior, Ronny would much rather spend his time being soothed by his mother in her bedroom. He would cry sometimes, and she wouldn’t mind holding him close, whispering and reassuring him that nothing was true and it was all just a bad dream. His mother always had time for him, to listen to him because, unlike his father and brother, her mother rarely left her room. Even when she did, she would drift from one place to the next, and would be found humming to herself or speaking to portraits on the wall.

Sometimes Ronny sighed with sadness, knowing full well that she wouldn’t understand him like she used to. Two years ago, after a refusal of some sort that was never disclosed, the King in his rage knocked her over the bed and the back of her head hit the dresser on the side. It was an accident for which the King would regret for years to come. That night, she lay motionless and the King feared the worst. Queen Tanya was in a coma for two weeks, sustained by magicians recruited from all over the kingdom. When she regained consciousness she was never the same again.

But what really happened to his mother never went beyond the palace walls. If anyone ever mentioned it, or brought it out into the open that his mother was brain-damaged, Ronny would at least grab them by the neck, and hit them in the face with a closed fist. Brain-damaged was how the healers saw and defined his mother. The injury was permanent, they claimed, and there was nothing they could do. Nowadays, in her own room she watched her children play, and when called to dinner she would smile and try to behave like a normal queen. But it did not take long for Ronny to notice that, when they were alone and when he looked her in the eyes, the mother he had always known was now an empty shell. She still recognised people, and gave the impression that she understood what was being said or what was going on. It hurt, when he saw the truth in her eyes that his real mother had already left him, forever.

Ronny would try to spare himself the agony of thinking about his brother for years to come. But right now, after another round of laughter outside which was no doubt caused by a witty comment from his brother, Ronny couldn’t help but let the images of Edward pour into his mind like a terrible disease. He didn’t want to think about his brother, not usually. Edward, now nineteen, was the rightful heir to the throne. One day he would become king, and to Ronny’s despair that would only mean more attention for his brother.

Nobody doubted Edward would be a great king. He had travelled wide, done everything, and excelled in all subjects that mattered. Whatever Ronny had achieved, his brother had done it in half the time and produced far better results, be it fishing, hunting, or magic. He hated his brother, or at least Ronny convinced himself he did, for being better than him. He resented that, on one occasion, when he’d finished writing a piece of music (a duet for harp and flute), he showed it to Edward and he was not impressed by his piece at all. Edward showed him the first movement of a symphony he’d written at his age, which actually followed the rules of counterpoint and had a logical harmonic progression as well as proper cadences. How Edward managed to turn this into an opportunity to talk about himself, about his own symphony, was beyond Ronny. It might have taken him some skill, but it was an unpleasant act that was most certainly unwanted. The point of showing Edward the music at all was that Ronny’s piece should be the centre of their conversation. And this defect, the desire to steal other people’s conversation for themselves, was not found only in his brother but in many others too. Sometimes, even when people didn’t realise it, they would at some point start talking about themselves in a conversation, bringing in their own subjects, or whatever they wanted to talk about, when they really should be talking about Ronny. However, he also acknowledged in a vague way that he himself enjoyed the moments when he brought his own ideas into a conversation, thinking all the while that others would be interested in what he had to say. He would never admit this though. He didn’t know how to describe it, but it gave him pleasure to express his own feelings and hear people say good things about him.

However hard he tried in the past he still couldn’t bring himself to hate Edward fully. He would never admit it, but in many ways he was also proud of Edward, as one would a champion and the pride and joy of the whole kingdom. His short, stylish brown hair combined with a charming profile and a seductive edge to his voice sent young ladies away from dining tables, misty-eyed. He appeared a perfect gentleman, both civilised and knowledgeable. With six years of refinement stacked against him, Ronny could not hope to match Edward, but it wasn’t until years later that he realised there had been no need for rivalry at all. There was nothing to be gained. They were siblings, and they were closer than they thought. The sons and daughters of dukes and duchesses always preferred Edward’s company to Ronny’s as young children, and Edward tried, whenever he remembered, to include his brother in their games. When that happened, Ronny would walk away, rejecting his offer. Ronny believed he did it out of pity, and he did not need his pity. When the other kids picked on Ronny because his silence was offensive or because they were mean and had a moment of inconsideration, Edward would always stick up for him and protect him from harm. He would see off the bullies, hands on hips, and ensure it would never happen again.

Edward asked nothing in return because he knew his brother had little to offer. He didn’t mind his little brother being so often unkind to him, or for that matter, showing no gratitude. He would say to himself that Ronny was just a child, that there were many things in this world he didn’t understand and he had yet to learn to appreciate the importance of family. He liked his little brother because sometimes he made him laugh and he was always hungry for adult attention. More importantly, Ronny reminded him of his childhood. For this reason, Edward felt his brother needed him for guidance.

In the past, Ronny had wanted to be a soldier and serve his country. His father was delighted, almost too supportive of that notion, believing it would turn Ronny finally into a man. It was an ambition Edward gently discouraged because it wasn’t practical, and he knew Ronny was being fooled by the propaganda of glorious warfare without knowing he was heading for a big disappointment. It wasn’t everyday that real soldiers got to experience the thrill of battle – they were not in a war, and most conflicts these days could be resolved by diplomatic means. Ronny never mentioned this idea again as its naivety crept up on him with the passing of time. Though he never said it, he was thankful for this discouragement, because as his understanding grew, he found that military wasn’t his kind of thing after all.

He should be thankful for Edward’s kindness, but he didn’t really feel it. Besides, telling Edward all about it would be unbearably embarrassing. In his mind, life would have been easier if Edward weren’t there at all. People would love him because he was the only child. He was convinced that Edward was responsible for his misery and how other people treated him. Maybe this was Edward’s atonement, playing kind. But what obligation was Edward under, to show Ronny anything at all? At the time, Ronny didn’t realise that anything from Edward would have been a charity, a bonus. As vulnerable as he was, he would rather convince himself that Edward was in fact his nemesis made by God, whose kindness, probably derived from pity and condescension, did not need to be returned. Who needs them? He wasn’t a pathetic being, even though everyone seemed to think so. And one day, he knew a moment would come and he would step in and prove the world wrong. So, plotting and scheming already with his eyes closed and still very much in his own bed, he imagined the moment when he outshone his brother for once in his life.