A Hero's Secret Plight

To The Sea My Tears Return

My earliest memory is of a boy. Summertime sunlight cast a glow upon each curl of his hair, so that it went from dark brown to light. I remember wondering why the shadows did that, masterful as the hands of a sculptor to craft this image of him so beautifully for my viewing. I thought this of everyone in the world; he was no different. You would think that it would pain me to say that I was wrong, wouldn't you? It does not. I could never be pained to know that I was wrong about him.

The world was so different then, and navigating life was like taking a dip in the sea, unaware of the threat of being swept away by the tide. The walls of his home were colourful and inviting, as if making up for in grandeur what its ruling family lacked in the affectionate bonds that kin often share. These frescoes of tanned men with impressive bodies kept me distracted from any rising tempers, thinking that one day I may look like these men, that I wanted to. I would never look like these men. I would look like myself.

[trigger warning: physical and mental abuse.]

In this particular moment, my legs trembled as much as trees in a storm, for I had been restless after a long journey in my father's chariot, that would later be mine. I had run around the gardens so as to not distract myself from our settling in and on my travels, I discovered the existence of a queen and her son, a prince, all from whispers about them that I knew I wasn't supposed to hear. I questioned such a claim when I reached a throne room, then a square room where court was kept, large and with two wooden thrones fit for a king and for a god. We called such a room a megaron. My brain was swimming with that theory I had no evidence that there was any truth to, so eager to have my question answered that before I could so much as greet our generous host, my voice rang high as bells. "Where is your family?"

The king's smile faded in seconds, giving way to a more honest version of himself. "I have no family," he said dismissively, of course after addressing my father, who had interjected on my behalf to apologise for my ungratefulness and indiscretion. A clap sounded from King Menoetius, all eyes on him. I noticed now that he was stocky and firm, small but strong as a boar. He would have a good backhand upon him when it came to disciplining dull-witted wives and repugnant sons. I would notice it each night, when a skinny, bruised boy would scamper about, dressed in deep purple silk (it always suited him more than I), hiding whenever he caught my eye as though he were anticipating my every move. I wanted to make peace with him but he was as elusive as a ghost. So the prince was real after all, though I took no pleasure in seeing him like this.

[End of triggering scene.]

These memories come in pieces, such as a broken vase, fractions separated from the other fractions of it left lost and unswept. I did not realise how important these memories might be to understanding others, so I had decided that I would not think about them again. For a time, I kept well on that promise.

I'd won the race (we were in Opus for our games), yes, but I had not felt victorious. I could not save that skittish young prince. Even after leaving Opus, I saw his face in daydreams, hoping that I may see it again in real life. I cannot tell you that I forgot him over time, only that I had tried but that his face popped up in my mind every once in a while and I wondered where he might be now and what he might look like. How was he? Nobody was able to give me the answer to that question — not even Phoenix — so I eventually stopped asking.

Ahah! This one morning, I thought I could have the world in the palm of my hand. I was seven years old and untangling my feet from the mess of my bedsheets. I kicked about a lot the night before and wiggled in these soft sheets, unable to shake the day from me for half an hour before Hypnos blessed me with sleep. Usually it was hard for me to wake up as well but it was easy on this particular morning, when I had shoved my tunic on simply to race through the palace halls, stones cool upon the feet that drummed against them. My home had no frescoes, my father preferring function over fashion. He liked paintings that could be carried away and preserved in the event of an attack, as strange as that had seemed at the time. It was not something that I agreed with him on but it was no matter. As plain as it was, I had liked my home anyway. The bareness of the walls brought possibilities. Besides, what they lacked in beauty, the land itself more than made up for. It had steep hills, narrow and rocky roads and it had trees all around which carried upon them an abundance of olives and other grown goods. We had the clearest beaches you would have ever seen in your life too, where you could see all the wildlife go about their daily lives. I did not know then how much I would come to miss it.