shameless. | dnf au

III

George 

I think baggage is overlooked more times than it isn't. 

I believe that what we decide to take along the road represents what we were before the journey began and what we wish to be when we reach our destination. The same goes for emotional baggage. It's easy to cling to emotional baggage because it's all out of sight, out of mind. But eventually, we start to see its effects on our stories and our abilities to be the best versions of ourselves. Emotional baggage prevents us from living authentically and happily. It takes a toll on our emotional, mental, physical, and spiritual well-being when we don't do some tidying up. I'm not saying empty it entirely because that would take far too long in one attempt. It's simply safer traveling with a bit of extra empty space. 

And quite frankly, I wasn't planning on packing any emotional baggage on this trip. However, I should've known some trinkets would've clung to the bottom of the bag. 

The flight on the private plane that the escort team had provided for my brother and I was far longer than I anticipated. The United Kingdom is tiny. How does a flight from London to Bute take such a long time? Wilbur was insistent on the idea of taking me to the academy. He claims it's because I shouldn't have to arrive alone, but I know it's because he misses it. 

"Are you ready?" my brother asks as he turns from staring out the car window to look at me, trying his best to read my face. I blink out the window. It's raining—typical Scotland. 

"Define ready," I joke sardonically as I continue to glue my gaze on the raging ocean. I feel Wilbur shift himself next to me, leaning against me as he stares out the same window. He's not looking at me now. I don't feel the burn of his eyes from behind his glasses on me anymore. 

"Ready means..." he trails off for a second, clearly thinking of how to put this in a 'George' manner rather than a 'Wilbur' one. I appreciate him for it. He tries his best. "Ready means, emotionally, physically and mentally, you're willing to accept growth, you're wanting adventure, craving a change, yearning for new experiences, begging for improvement." I look at him now. He's looking back. A softness in his eyes. He truly means what he's saying. He's not just saying it because he knows this is what I want to hear. He means it. "Ready for more."

For once, I'm at a loss for words. No snarky comment, no quick-witted remark. Completely and utterly speechless that all I can do is reply with a soft nod. I do want that. I want it all. I'm ready for it, even if it's only temporary. 

I look out the front windshield, brows raising as we approach the large castle-like building situated comfortably on a cliffside overlooking the ocean. Sure, I'm moving from one palace to a facility resembling the confined walls I spent my whole life in, but this one's got a view. So that's got to count for something, right?

Upon arriving at the driveway- a graveled road that circles around a large water fountain that stands parallel to the loomingly large door where an average-height man stands, shoulders slightly hunched. Whether it be from the cold or a horribly developed posture from sitting in front of a desk all day? I'm not sure, but he's got a welcoming grin, and I choose to focus on that instead. 

"Your Highness, it's an absolute pleasure to see you again!" God, the Scottish accent never gets old. Honestly, it's like music to my ears.

When Wilbur and I were much younger, Mother sat us down and told us that we'd be appointed important roles as her only two sons. We were seen as princes of the United Kingdom, not England alone. Wilbur being the firstborn was allowed to choose between the two first. Scotland or Wales. Part of me is thankful that he went first and had just recently returned from a trip to Wales that he found rather riveting.