Parenting Only Memories

Everything is exactly the same, and everything is exactly different.

These rooms, the Prism Chambers, sparkle in the early morning light. Across the wall, framing the balcony, are ten tall windows. They each tell a story, and I know several versions of each tale alone. The Theyrian carvings across the ceilings are oiled and gleaming, refreshed once every cycle before the storm season. The smell of it, sharp and nutty, brings back a thousand memories of this place that I thought I had forgotten. I used to hide from my tutors in this room, under the bed. The streaks of light across the floor changed color as the day dragged on, and I would use colored chalk to chart the transitions and compare them. And once after I became King, on a day the council had a day off, my wife Kazena and I stayed on the sofa in this room for hours reading together.

When my Illi was little and couldn't sleep, I would bring him in here and tell him about the stained glass. He tottered around, exploring, but I think he was listening, too. I picture his face now, the last time I saw him: the troublesome, round face of an eight-year-old, bright-eyed, giggling as I told him his little sibling was about to be born. He was always intelligent and curious. No book was safe from him. He used to follow us around, asking question after question about what we were doing and why.

His favorite food was pudding, and he couldn't ever have any without making enough of a mess for our head housekeeper to have a fuss about it. I feel sorry for her now, having had to clean pudding out of carpet myself. At least in Earth's world, it's filled with enough preservatives that it won't rot if you leave it there for a week before picking up stain remover during your next grocery run.

I've changed since I was the king. Ryan says that Illi has changed since he's been king.

He was eight that last night.

He was eight when his mother died and I left him and his baby brother. It's been sixteen years and I've only just made it back.

I wonder if he thinks it's my fault. My therapist back in Earth always said it wasn't, that sometimes bad things happen to good people for no reason at all.

But he was eight.

That feels unforgivable.

Ryan has spent the morning drilling us about Lachlantheses's current political climate.

"He has the manpower to do whatever he wants, and he's a sadist. He'd rather play with you than kill you outright, so you can get away with some things, but it's better to just keep your mouth shut."

He uses the full name we never did, so it's easier to pretend he's not talking about my son.

"He likes the reactions he gets, though, so you have to act like you're unafraid. Don't give him any fuel. Pretend like you're equals, and he'll believe it a little bit more."

His gaze drifts off, and he rubs his cheek like a memory. His hands are shaking, though he's pretending they're not. This shining room is only a nightmare to him.

I'm holding half of the curtain rod that his sister Amy ripped out of the wall, and the material that it's made out of is leeching the warmth out of my fingers. It feels like home, somehow. For a moment, I feel split in half between two universes, one piece here and one piece in Earth's world, and it's confusing. It hurts. I look around these rooms for comfort, but home can be neither a place nor a person right now.

Amy holds her half of the curtain rod defiantly, twirling it like she's in a high school color guard show.

"For bludgeoning," she had greeted me this morning, cheerfully handing it over.