Elijah - 2. Chapter 2: The Prodigal Son

A few weeks had passed, or perhaps more. Time had lost its touch upon me, although I usually obsessed over doing everything on or, at least, on some sort of schedule. The thought of time did not seem to present itself to royalty or aristocracy. The weeks however had not been daunting, but rather educational.

My roommate, the aforementioned blonde, was named Sydney. His father was a high-ranking military official, and for a few nights it was all about war and conquest. I found him amusing and his friendship, oddly genuine.

“So… my dad told me about the time he was fighting Venz. It was cold he said…” I pretended to listen while I surfed the Internet. I gave a courtesy nod here and there. “They were down three men… then those flying things they have, death angels or something, they came and started firing…pew pew pooshs boom!” He pretended to make a gun noise, over and over. I laughed. I had learned that his father was second in command of the Royal Paladin, the king’s personal army.

Overall, I enjoyed his company. He always found me in the dining hall and occasionally would walk with me between classes. I felt myself warming up to his random comments and suggestions of fun on the weekends. I chalked him up as something of a good friend. Sydney was also a wiz at mathematics, in which I failed miserably.

Classes did not seem as hard as I initially had thought. Econ was not that bad. I sat next to a very pretty girl, Whitney. She always talked to me…and never stopped. She would vent about her friends and her mother—who was somebody somewhere in Cathedral. Boy troubles, you name it, she spouted it. I gave the best advice I could and helped her with her Econ homework; she told me literally everything about Westfield Academy. Largest gossip dump I’ve met.

“Right so… like…okay if you see any of the royals, you know…” I had slipped into the girl’s bathroom with her while she did her hair before class. She was sure pretty. “Bow, or if you’re sitting, stand and don’t look directly at them. Normally they don’t care but like…” she went off into a tangent about Princess Lidia and hair dye, “So….like yeah and if any of the Duchy kids enter, you must incline your head in their direction. They are Lord or Lady until told otherwise…” She put on some sort of lotion, then turned to me tilting her head. “You don’t really know anything do you? Where did you live before Westfield?”

I hesitated, “Uh…Portalis.” She giggled and returned to her prepping.

“That’s why. Well it isn’t hard you know? Just like… learn. It isn’t hard. Trust me…like I assume your parents aren’t in any Ministry or something like that, but like…” she was checking for pimples now. I was leaning against a stall and keeping an eye on the door fearing entry of another female. “Be glad you aren’t going about all the time to parties and events. She mimicked some person, her mother I assume. “You must meet this person, or this Duke or blah blah blah… ugh…Lets go. I need to cheat off you for that test.”

History was interesting. Our professor was a war veteran and usually class went in a totally opposite direction from the actual topic. Tales about valiant efforts on the battlefield, how he lost this ligament and that sort of thing. Funny thing was he had all of his ligaments.

My math professor was a calculating man who seemed to prey on my lack of mathematical knowledge. Sydney was in my class and usually sat next to me, whispering answers to questions that always seemed to find their way to me. I felt a mediocre grade coming from that class, but that did not dampen my enthusiasm.

English was my favorite class, subject, time of day and anything else that fit into the category of pleasure within education. My professor was, for lack of a better term, cool. Professor Taylor, I concluded was young, unmarried and incredibly smart. I had weaseled myself into his eye after he read a poem I had written. His attention was something I secretly enjoyed; although, it became irritating after I thought about it. Thereafter, I enjoyed keeping to myself.

And this is where it all started, in English. The one class that was my radiant salvation from the troubles of the day turned traitor. It was a week before the winter recess: two whole weeks off for vacation. I would most likely return home; others would journey to their estates and castles and fortresses, whatever, to enjoy the holidays. The weather was even gloomier than the previous weeks. Rain threatened the gray sky but Professor Taylor insisted the cool air stimulated the creative process, and kept the windows of the classroom open.

We had been set free to work on a small piece about what we would do over the break. I had faith that the professor would be chalking up better ideas. I was hunched over my desk, trying to ignore the gusts of cold wind that surged through the room. Most of us had our coats on; I huddled into mine for warmth. The door to the classroom was closed. When it opened, it created a wind tunnel; someone had entered. I paid no mind. The cold lingered however, creeping and chilling. It irritated me, halting my train of thought and forcing my head up.

Whispers crisscrossed the room and followed a boy along the isles as he made his way to the Professor’s desk. I did not bother to look any further than to notice that he had blonde hair; he moved too quickly for a good look. I returned to my work. As the class went on, I glanced at the clock. It was Friday and the day would soon be over, ebbing into the relaxing weekend. But then…

“Jeremy?”

My concentration shattered once more, I look up. Professor Taylor wiggled a pen between his slender fingers, beckoning me to his desk. I slipped from my desk, and walked to the front of the room; I felt the other students’ eyes on my back, boring into it. I felt exposed. The boy who had entered was still standing at the professor’s desk. I stood next to him, and realized that he was a bit taller than I was.

“Jeremy, ah…I have…” The professor was marking something down on a schedule sheet. He continued. “A favor to ask of you.” Did I have any choice? I glanced at the blonde; it seemed me that he was completely ignoring me, as if I didn’t exist.

“Sure…uh yes, sir...” My voice trailed off; I was unsure of what else to say.

“This is Braden Extollere. Returning from a brief leave of absence. His father has requested Braden receive a tutor…” My mind reeled. Was I to be the tutor? “And I feel that you would be best suited for the job, don’t you think?”.

Hell no. “I don’t see why not,” I lied through my teeth and in that brief moment, as I put the lie into play, Braden glanced at me as if he knew. I shivered.

“Fantastic!” The Professor finished marking the schedule and slid Braden an envelope full of papers. “Catch up on that. I think you both should meet after school each day at the benches in the courtyard. A perfect location. Jeremy can catch you up to date on your work. I hope that your father will be pleased with your grades forthwith. There was a pause. “Give your father my best.” Braden said something quickly then slid off. I stood lonely at the desk, smoldering.

“I don’t want to be a tutor,” I muttered as the bell tolled for the day to end.

“I’m sorry?” Professor Taylor looked up, eyebrow raised. I quickly recovered, waving my hands in defense.

“Oh no no, I’m sorry, I did not mean it like that… I just… I am bad at teaching people.” It was a horribly lame excuse, I was somewhat frightened by the strange boy. I searched the Professor’s face for any sign of redemption. There was no redepmption; however, there was a bright smile.

“Hardly. Your grasp of literature and writing are superb. You are a worthy candidate indeed.” He shuffled his papers and searched for his briefcase. “Perhaps you might learn a thing or two from one another? Plus, Braden has been through some troubled times. A friend in need is a friend indeed you know.” I rolled my eyes. This was some sort of punishment. Was I not royal enough? Rich enough? Well, of course I wasn’t! I trudged back to my desk to collect my things. The professor’s words sent me on my way: “I am sure he is waiting at the benches, so off you go then.”

Ushered thereby out of the classroom I made my leisurely way to the courtyard. It was a glorious vast inner cloister. A gigantic oak, the immortal symbol of Elijah, towered in the center. Around the base of the massive trunk trunk circled benches carved from marble. Roses budded lightly despite the cold weather, and groups of students wandered about. I situated myself at one of the benches. Braden was nowhere to be seen.

Fishing through my bag I found a book and began to read. I figured he might be attending to other classes, so I prepared to kill some time.

“Jeremy?” I had been nodding off. There he stood before me, this Braden Extollere.

“Yeah, hey…” I could manage only that as I looked at him closer. The wind had picked up, tossing leaves across the courtyard, now empty save for him and me. I knew that Braden must have had many admirers. Striking blue eyes, blonde hair and a face that the Almighty had spent a century to create. I felt so much below average, standing next to him. I shrugged it off as jealousy. The silence that followed was awkward and I hate awkward so I filled it in. “So, you have the packet Taylor gave you; we can look over that…” I fumbled, while returning my book to my backpack, and several small paperbacks fell out.

“Where are you from?” The voice was lazy, but the command within caught me completely off guard. Time froze for a few moments; I had no idea what to say. Then it finally came to me

“Portalis. Is it that obvious because somebody…” I flushed, embarrassed. Portalis still retained its mundane reputation, even here in Riven. Braden bent down fluidly and picked up the books, glancing at each title as he handed them to me. It seemed as if he smirked when he passed me my journal. Stupid, I know.

“Yes, it is. Normally, you would stand in my presence.” Braden looked at me with those blue eyes, I could see a soft smile wrinkling the skin but it just never came, only the potential.

“Huh?” I was beyond being confused, and stood, flustered, my thumb slowly running back and forth over the leather cover of my journal.

“Ah, Portalis, armpit of Elijah…” He paused and his slender, piano-player’s hands found their way into deep pockets. Wind tossed his golden locks; it just screwed up mine. “So, they say. You don’t look like you come from an armpit though. There was hope for my salvation.

“Well I can’t choose were my family lives. It is a nice part, south of Moreshire near the border of Kelvash. It is nice.” I paused and shoved the books back into my bag, “Real nice, I like it.” I did not live in any armpit. “So, what’s in this packet?" He held it out in two slender fingers. I took it from him. He gestured dismissivly to it, and continued interrogating me.

“How did you manage to get here, then?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Braden raised an eyebrow, “Nobody from Portalis attends this school. Either you’re blind to your country’s economy or you are just plain dull…”

“I pay attention, I guess. I really did not. I had followed only bits and pieces about the war, which was now over. I spent to too much time doing other things…

“What could you possibly be doing that is more important than your country and her wellbeing?” Braden asked. Humph, last time I checked I was the tutor and not in flipping history either.

“Nothing, really. But I was always busy with school work, or reading… or something. My mom watches the news.” It was a poor defense.

“Portalis is probably the worst province in the Court. Constantly having crime issues, especially in Hearth, the capitol for God’s sake. The Duke is an alcoholic, the marriage is loveless…pray tell what happened to solid blood lines…and the trade there is beyond terrible.” He looked to me for a response. I blanked briefly, mystified by those blue eyes. I was being examined, dissected, sized up. And I was too meek to resist.

“I don’t know, I think His Grace does things fine…” I had never been to Hearth to know anything about the crime. In fact, I had never been outside my home town, with the exception of attending the Academy.

“So then how did you get here?”

“The lottery.” I blushed in shame, and couldn’t look at him. I pretended that there was something on the bottom of my shoe, and scraped it against the gravel, looking down at it while I did so.

“The Queen’s lottery?”

“Yeah,” I breathed, suddenly out of breath. I wanted to leave; more, I wanted to hide. Braden’s contempt was poor payment for being his English tutor.

“Interesting. Do you enjoy the fairs?”

“None come to Portalis, remember…armpit?” I looked at him now and he met my eyes for a moment and grinned. It was a very brief grin.

“Valid point, scum of Portalis.” There. On his face. Another brief grin. “Have you ever been to the fair at Damascus?”

“No, never, I read about it though in the…”

“Right of course, would you like to go?” Braden asked. The feeling of mushy paper tickled my finger tips. I was still gripping the packet.

“Now?”

“No, in a day or so. The day term ends is the First Night of the fair. It is famous, of course; everybody knows of it. His Majesty attends. And now, with the recent peace, I am sure it will be… monumental. There was a pause. “You may attend as my guest; I have an extra ticket. You need some inculturation to your country’s history and I am always willing to assist the needy…” I felt like a toy; it felt slimy.

“Fine.” I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to deny it, but I just said yes, out of necessity. Out of acceptances, out of feeling…cool. Braden exuded cool. I thought, why not?

“Oh good. I was afraid you would say no. Come to this location. He moved forward, snatched the packet of papers flipped it over and brandished a pen. In scrawling, wispy handwriting, he left an address. “Re-direct the driver to that location when term finishes, rather than home. This ought to be fun, don’t you think? Well, cheerio.” And with that Braden Extollere was gone. I was left with an address and my very thoroughly shattered pride.

I hated Braden Extollere. With every fiber of my being.