wrongs. [dreambur]

Chapter 2 - A Letter

WILBUR

Both Kingdoms had been rather silent after the event of the coronation. Their castles, at least. Their villages were as normal. Almost, as normal. As normal as anyone else would be after something like that. A public dispute between two Kings. It had become the talk of the town. Suddenly everyone had something to do with someone else's business. Countless rumors were spread, gossip stirred. Humans were naturally curious, some would say. Humans were nosy, others would say. That way goes the game, he supposed. Who was he to say who was malicious and not?

     No one.

So he stayed silent. He didn't say. He listened and pretended not to hear. He could only wish he hadn't. He shouldn't have to. This entire scandal was an embarrassment. He'd embarrassed himself, his brothers, and his kingdom in front of not only his kingdom, but surrounding lands. He should be ashamed. Though as much as he should be, he couldn't find it in himself.

He'd been defending his brother, he would always defend his brother.

It's what his parents would've wanted. If they were here they would've done it themselves. If they were here none of this would've happened in the first place. Why did they have to leave?

Wilbur found himself wondering that more often than not. Sitting in a bored silence or laying in bed at night. Restless either way. Wondering why. What had they done? What had he done to deserve this? Why were they taken away? Away from him, away from his brothers. The questions only drove him further down that path of existential dread. An endless path that spilt off into infinite other paths, all never ending. All of them equally as exhausting. The kind of paths that'd leave you shaken and unsettled. The kind you wouldn't want to walk alone down at night. The path you see and turn around.

He could only pray to turn around. Pray to a God who wasn't there. Who'd never been there. God wouldn't have let his parents die, would he? No God of his, that was for certain.

In his room he dwelled, sitting at a wooden desk. The spot he'd write poetry, or simply sit and think. He had a good view of his window from there, he could gaze out endlessly, watching the day go by. As if he had nothing better to do. He was in over his head with responsibilities and he hardly wanted to leave his room. He wouldn't at all, if it weren't for his brothers. He wasn't doing anything unless it were for someone else anymore.

He survived for his Kingdom, he lived for his brothers.

Nowadays he felt like an autumn leaf. Dulling in color, draining in life. Drifting through a wispy breeze. Waiting to land on the ground, to inevitably be stepped on and broken up. Into brittle small flakes with a crunch under someone's boot. He was waiting, but it never seemed to happen. That was selfish, wasn't it? Wanting to leave. Leave his family, leave his people. Selfish. That's how he was acting. He hadn't died. He hadn't even been there to see it. He shouldn't be falling apart as if he'd gotten assassinated himself. He was perfectly fine. He was healthy, he wasn't six feet under, he was alive. He should be grateful. He should be happy. Why couldn't he be how he should? How he knew he could be? How he had been.

It bothered him. He didn't want to focus on it, but what else was he to think about? He couldn't draw his attention away from it. His head was empty but overflowing at the same time. Full of everything aside from the thoughts he wanted to think. He sighed, finally setting his quill down on the wood. Giving up on staring at the blank page in front of him. The only thing was a puddle of ink where the head of the quill had been resting, leaking across the clean paper. A million words in his head he couldn't seem to get to his hand. Leaving an empty ink stained page as all he had to show for himself.

This wasn't helping. Nothing seemed to help. He was restless, even when he wasn't asleep. Nothing he did felt quite correct. Like there was a small voice in the back of his mind nagging him. Not a strong voice, a mere whisper. Subtle, hardly noticeable. But just enough to bother him. To make him question what he was doing. He was paranoid. He'd never been like this before. He felt like he was going crazy, and maybe he was. Maybe he had. He wouldn't put it past himself to know. He sighed, setting his utensil back in the inkwell.