Brotherly Love - 8. Epilogue

Wrapping it up .

Varrock Palace: Year 202

Having finally finished the novel, it was only a simple task to arrange the return of relevant reports and documentations to the Varrock archives regarding Edward’s time in prison. I hoped those, and what survived in memory would be enough to give him the justice he deserved. I would no longer deny the right of others to know the truth, of what truly happened to Edward. The story must be told.

But then, some of my readers might be compelled to ask, how much of it really happened? How did I know what Edward was thinking at that particular time? Or anyone else apart from himself? And did it really matter? Maybe not. Maybe writing itself was its own self-centred show, expressing none other than opinions and fancies of the author who flaunted his literary skills in return for sympathy and love. If that were true, not even the novel would be enough, and what Edward accused of me still remained true today. But I’d like to think that, since I had never tried to understand his point of view, never tried to step into his shoes when he was alive, this, the novel, was at least a step up.

If everything was as planned, the novel itself should be in print later this year, after my 70th birthday when I would pass the throne onto my son. It wasn’t easy to be king, and it wasn’t until recently, after a discovery in the garden, that I finally summoned enough courage to publish something of this proportion, of what exactly happened to the rightful heir.

Just a few months before, my Queen Ella demanded a redecoration of the back garden and parts of the palace. The altar, along with my old room would go too, something I opposed immediately. She was none too pleased when I did not produce a valid explanation. For nostalgia, perhaps, on a few occasions in the past I still wandered down the corridor after dark, just like how it all began on that fateful night, and took the very same steps of that treacherous path when I was a child. Like a child, then, I still peeked through the doors and into the altar, hoping it was all a bad dream and Edward would somehow still be in there, and in love. It wasn’t hard to recall their voices, their presence in that dark place. They both knew it was their first anniversary; neither knew it was their last. When I opened my eyes again, the altar would be dark, and empty. And to think I had caused all this, made all this possible due to a moment of inconsideration has been unbearable over the years, but it was something I must accept. It was a sin, a burden that weighed you down until you did something about it. And I have, now.

Despite not granting my queen the removal of the altar, she did have my approval to redecorate the back garden, which meant that old yew tree behind the kitchen had to go too. Funnily enough, I’d almost forgotten my dirty little secret, and so when the diggers told me they found a little casket I ordered it to be disposed of, then called them back after I’d realised what it could be. I have long lost the key to open it, but thankfully I found a young lad with a little skill in pick-locking and so was able to open the casket and read its contents.

‘He has killed his brother. He has always hated his brother and wanted him dead. He finally did it. He’s very happy about what he’s done…’

For the next half an hour or so, I read the story and wept like I never had before. What a foolish child, to think there would be victory, or any satisfaction to be gained, by killing his brother. A most horrible thought, and I was still paying the price today. It was at that point I decided to complete my first story, the story I started as a child, after neglecting it for fifty-seven years. My novel did indeed tell the tale of how I murdered my brother, but also, how I wished it were different. The effects of my actions are still being felt even to this day. The morning after Edward ran away, my father died and with no news of Edward, I was anointed king. My father, in his final moment, did ask for Edward’s release, told me why he did the things he did and in the end, admitted he was wrong to assume that everyone was made the same way. Two years later on one morning, my mother was found in her bed with a smile on her face, never to open her eyes or wake up again. Maybe she was smiling because of her memory of Edward, I wasn’t sure. I didn’t think she would be smiling if she knew what a life she has had. Thirty years ago, Reldo passed away in his home, but he had lived a long and full life, with no regrets.

Then, one day I realised how empty, how hollow the palace seemed, without family. In the library, the dining hall and bedrooms were memories of dead people, from a scene so many years ago. The names of the dead stacked up over the years and soon, I would join their ranks. Although the palace was full of servants, they only knew of duty, salary, and how to watch out for their own heads. There was no love, no kindness, no warmth, nothing. It was not family. It wasn’t the same. Nothing was. Sometimes I thought I could still walk into the room further down the corridor, Edward’s old room, like I often did when I was a small child, find my brother in his bed, wake him, hug him, and cry, because I could stand the silence no longer. He hated that kind of thing, but he would never push me away. He never did push me away. And now, there was no one who would share with me their love, their time and care, unconditionally. That was of course, before I had a woman in my life. But not even falling in love with a woman could cure my past, or my guilt.

And what happened to Edward, exactly? Nobody knew for certain. The wilderness was vast, untamed, and it was where dangerous beasts of all kinds lurked in the shadows. Nobody, even today, goes there unarmed. Our search team found Edward’s clothes, stripped away and cast to one side, in one of the ruins where the greater demons waited for unfortunate adventurers. We found corpses, all of them unrecognisable, because the rituals the demons perform often distorted their shapes. I couldn’t bear the thought of my brother suffering any more than he already had.

It was silly of me to write Edward that letter and think he would still come back and agree to be king, if Tyler was not here. Maybe I underestimated his ability to let go, and overestimated his desire for revenge. Maybe, even as broken as he was then, he still cared about me and he couldn’t bring himself back to punish his little brother. Now I would never know. My father in his fury did many unforgettable things, many things he later regretted in his dying moments. This wasn’t to say that I played no part or, because I did not know of the consequences of my actions, I was therefore innocent. I took away too many things that day to be innocent. I owed Edward an explanation, of how it happened and why I did the things I did. He never knew.

It was quite a task, to decentre oneself and try to write what Edward truly think, without being self-serving. I would be even more of a coward if I were to write in my novel that, Edward had forgiven me or, that he still loved me and cared about me like he used to. And maybe by writing this, I finally discovered a purpose, a reason to carry on living this life. I carried on, because Edward’s story must not be forgotten, and I must always be the one who tells it – all of it, the whole truth, without pretence, without bias.

In my reign, I tried to keep the above in mind when I passed the law that couples of the same gender could marry and live a happy life together. It was something my brother would have done. The Saradominist priests of course made demonstrations outside the palace and in the end, they had to be dispersed by arrows. Those who believed in inequality had no place in my kingdom.

Would Edward be proud of me if he knew? Would his spirit read my novel and finally understand the circumstances that led up to the point of my crime? It was useless to ask for forgiveness now, but Edward would have wanted me to tell everyone what really happened to him, to say I deserved no sympathy. Edward was gone, except for what survived in memory, in print, and in my heart where I would always know for certain that he once loved me, and I did not see it. Now he was gone. But those final moments in the altar between him and Tyler would be forever captured in my story, their love preserved. They survive, as long as these words are read and cherished by a new reader. For brotherly love, I wrote this novel to remember the brother who once loved me, and to whom I return the time that I took, the time the lovers would have had together, and I gave them an eternity. It wasn’t me being kind, and I wouldn’t consider myself being too harsh, too ruthless on my own past. It was no less than what I deserved. But at least I knew, in my heart, there would always be a selfish child who owed his brother this much.

The End.