When the memory begins, your brother is talking to you.
Which is to say, Mithrun’s brother, sitting at an angle to him in a matched pair of delicately-carved garden chairs, is talking to Mithrun - though, nobody would likely guess the relation by looks alone. He looks nothing like his younger brother (which is to say, like you), with his unruly straw-blonde hair and drooping blue eyes.
That lack of resemblance really does seem, at the moment, to stick out more than whatever he’s saying. Maybe your attention span would be better if it weren’t for the mostly-empty wine bottle sitting on the crystal table between the two of you, but does it matter? It’s not like he’ll have anything to say worth listening to.
Accidentally tuning in again only confirms that. His tone is infuriatingly gentle. “You’re meant to get leave every few years, aren’t you? I’m sure there’s a lot you’ll want to do then, but you’re welcome to stop by. We’d love to… see you…” His smile falters as you reach for the bottle to refill your cup again, but he doesn’t stop you.
Good. He had better not.
Not when you're being sent away for his shortcomings.
Maybe that thought showed on your face; even though you don’t say it, that fading smile disappears altogether. He shifts in place, adjusting the crutch resting against his seat. He’s fidgeting, and that means he’s changing topics, and you can already feel irritation prickling at your skin. You try to knock it back with your drink as he starts talking.
“It… really doesn’t seem fair.” Of course it doesn’t. Because it isn’t. “I know Mother and Father are worried about how it will look if they don’t send either of us to the Canaries, but…”
He trails off. You both know how that thought ends.
It was always going to be you. Of course it was going to be you.
He should have just left it at that. Instead, he speaks again.
“If it was possible for me to go, then--”
“Well, it isn’t!” You slam the cup down on the table, sending the sharp sound of metal on crystal reverberating around you. Your brother flinches, blue eyes going wide. “Of course it isn’t! That would be an insult to the Queen, wouldn’t it? So it falls to me, like how everything that matters falls to me, what I want be damned-- because it’s either me or my stupid, worthless brother!”
You stand up, steadying yourself with a hand on your chair, before he can reply, and pull away sharply when he reaches for you. You’d rather fall than have him try to help you - but, by chance, you regain your balance.
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branchandroot
THE MOTH ; CW: alcohol abuse, ableism
Date: 2023-10-19 10:49 pm (UTC)When the memory begins, your brother is talking to you.
Which is to say, Mithrun’s brother, sitting at an angle to him in a matched pair of delicately-carved garden chairs, is talking to Mithrun - though, nobody would likely guess the relation by looks alone. He looks nothing like his younger brother (which is to say, like you), with his unruly straw-blonde hair and drooping blue eyes.
That lack of resemblance really does seem, at the moment, to stick out more than whatever he’s saying. Maybe your attention span would be better if it weren’t for the mostly-empty wine bottle sitting on the crystal table between the two of you, but does it matter? It’s not like he’ll have anything to say worth listening to.
Accidentally tuning in again only confirms that. His tone is infuriatingly gentle. “You’re meant to get leave every few years, aren’t you? I’m sure there’s a lot you’ll want to do then, but you’re welcome to stop by. We’d love to… see you…” His smile falters as you reach for the bottle to refill your cup again, but he doesn’t stop you.
Good. He had better not.
Not when you're being sent away for his shortcomings.
Maybe that thought showed on your face; even though you don’t say it, that fading smile disappears altogether. He shifts in place, adjusting the crutch resting against his seat. He’s fidgeting, and that means he’s changing topics, and you can already feel irritation prickling at your skin. You try to knock it back with your drink as he starts talking.
“It… really doesn’t seem fair.” Of course it doesn’t. Because it isn’t. “I know Mother and Father are worried about how it will look if they don’t send either of us to the Canaries, but…”
He trails off. You both know how that thought ends.
It was always going to be you. Of course it was going to be you.
He should have just left it at that. Instead, he speaks again.
“If it was possible for me to go, then--”
“Well, it isn’t!” You slam the cup down on the table, sending the sharp sound of metal on crystal reverberating around you. Your brother flinches, blue eyes going wide. “Of course it isn’t! That would be an insult to the Queen, wouldn’t it? So it falls to me, like how everything that matters falls to me, what I want be damned-- because it’s either me or my stupid, worthless brother!”
You stand up, steadying yourself with a hand on your chair, before he can reply, and pull away sharply when he reaches for you. You’d rather fall than have him try to help you - but, by chance, you regain your balance.
You don’t look back.